


In loco patris

by cactusonastair



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Case Fic, Father-Son Relationship, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Major Character Injury, Spoilers for S4E1 "Dead of Winter", Spoilers for S4E4 "Falling Darkness", Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 01:16:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 55,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1921155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cactusonastair/pseuds/cactusonastair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lewis and Hathaway investigate the case of a corpse dumped in a farmer's field, not knowing that digging into the man's past will also uncover secrets James has worked hard to guard his entire life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was the very first fic idea I had in the Lewis fandom, more than three years ago, but it's taken a very, very long time to actually get the words on screen. Impetus for finishing the story came from (i) the Case Story Big-Bang organised by nickygabriel on LJ and (ii) my lovely alpha reader seren_bach, who gave lots of kind feedback and encouragement.
> 
> This fic has cover art! Created by the lovely and talented [neevebrody](http://archiveofourown.org/users/neevebrody/works). Please check it out [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2031906)! Thank you, neeve, I'm thrilled by it!

There were some parts of a copper's job you never got used to, even after thirty years of it. Having to inform someone that their child had been brutally murdered. Seeing the cold, lifeless corpse of a witness you'd just spoken to hours before. Getting called out at the arsecrack of dawn... 

Robbie Lewis blinked awake on the second ring, automatically putting out a hand for the mobile. Bloody thing never stayed in one place. "Sorry, love," he whispered as the phone continued its insistent clamour, drawing himself up on one elbow and opening his eyes blearily – 

Only to find the rest of the bed empty, as it had been for ten years, and would be forevermore. That was another thing he'd never get used to. 

He bit back the familiar pangs of grief and the rest of the apology as he groped for the phone. He finally found it and hit the accept-call button with unwarranted force. 

"This'd better be murder," he announced, "or I'll be forced to do some murderin' meself." 

"Inspector Lewis?" the confused tones of the dispatch officer penetrated through the fog of Robbie's brain. 

"Where's Hathaway?" Robbie asked, cursing himself for not checking that it was his sergeant calling. Not that it was required procedure, but James usually took over the role of notifying him about call-outs once he himself got the news. 

"Sergeant Hathaway didn't answer on my first try, sir. I'll try again in a moment." 

Odd, that. Hathaway and his mobile were practically joined at the hip. 

"All right, Constable, give me the gory details," Robbie sighed, trusting that some part of his brain was awake enough and professional enough to retain the information. 

There wasn't much to go on, the dispatch officer said apologetically – the description from the attending officer had been vague. 

Young man. Tall. Caucasian. Blond. Found naked in a farmer's field. No ID. Slathered in mud from the rains... 

Robbie was halfway to dressed before the call was over. 

* * * 

The address he'd been given was a farmer's field twenty minutes south of Oxford. Robbie got there in fifteen, spotting the white SOCO tent as soon as he crested one of Oxfordshire's rolling hills. Uniform and SOCO were crawling all over the crime scene as Robbie picked his way to them between soggy cabbages. 

Laura Hobson hailed him briskly as he approached, somehow managing to look trim and fresh despite the hour and the mud attacking her SOCO suit. One look at her and Robbie's fears melted away. _Not_ Hathaway. 

"Morning, Robbie. Where's your golden-haired boy?" she asked, peeking around him ostentatiously – he wasn't sure why, given that he wasn't tall enough, and hopefully wasn't wide enough, to block Hathaway from anyone's sight. 

"Isn't James here yet, then?" Robbie frowned. Dispatch must have found a way to reach him by now, surely. 

"Doesn't he live nearer by? You haven't been working him too hard, have you, Robbie?" 

"He doesn't need me to do that for him. 'Sides, we've all been working a little too hard lately," Robbie replied dryly. Oxfordshire's criminal element seemed to have conspired to make the last week the week from hell for the forces of law and order. He and James had worked flat-out juggling three separate top-priority cases. 

"Must be something in the drinking supply. I'll test for water-borne pathogens right away," Laura told him, straight-faced, but her look was sympathetic. Most of the cases from last week hadn't required the services of a pathologist, but she'd been there. They all had. "Did you get them, by the way?" 

"Yeah. Last one cracked at ten p.m. last night." 

"I'm sure the good citizens of Oxford slept safer in their beds." 

"This one didn't," Robbie sighed, looking down at the body. It was curled into a crouching, foetal position, and as the dispatch officer had reported, so covered in mud from last night's torrential rains that he couldn't even tell by looking whether it was a man or a woman with very short hair. He could tell, though, from the pale flesh that peeked through the mud, that it hadn't any clothes on. "What's the story?" 

Laura squatted down next to him. "There's not much of one. I don't want to remove any of this mud here in case I disturb any evidence. But I can tell you that it's an unidentified Caucasian male, on the younger side – late twenties or early thirties – found naked and semi-buried in the earth by the keen-scented Timmy." 

"Timmy?" 

"The dog. He belongs to a Mr Stetton. As does this field." She nodded over to where one of the PCs was taking a statement from a stout, outdoorsy man in his fifties. He was accompanied by a sheepdog wagging its tail a little too enthusiastically for five in the bloody morning. 

Robbie returned his attention to the body. "No ID, you said?" 

"No clothes means no pockets, no pockets means no wallet or keys, and until I get him cleaned up, no obvious identifying marks either." 

"It just had to be an unidentified, didn't it?" Robbie huffed. 

Laura raised her eyebrows. "Why, did you have something better to do this weekend?" 

Robbie wished Laura didn't sound quite so sceptical. "It's Father's Day on Sunday." 

Realisation dawned on Laura's face. "You're going up to Manchester to see Lyn?" 

"Unidentified body on the Friday before? Not bloody likely." Robbie sighed. "Well, it's not as if I didn't miss loads of her birthdays and things when she was growing up. She's used to it by now." 

"Robbie," Laura said, and from her tone of voice Robbie knew that she'd be patting his arm if she weren't in a scene suit. 

"It's just an imported American holiday to me, but...Lyn sets so much store by it, you know? I've managed to make it every year since I got back from the BVI. Six years in a row. God knows how that happened. Bloomin' miracle, now that I think about it." 

"Speaking of blooming miracles..." Laura pointed, and Robbie turned just in time to take in the welcome sight of his sergeant arriving at last. Hathaway swung a long leg over the stile and landed elegantly in a puddle of mud. There was a loud squelch, followed by a stream of muttered "fudge"s and other expletives sanitised for Church use. 

"At the rate you're going, we're going to have to start washing your mouth out with soap, Sergeant," he called out, retreating to a jibe to hide his overwhelming sense of relief. 

"Sorry, sir." Hathaway grimaced in disgust as he picked his way over to them. Robbie had to suppress a chuckle when he saw the source of Hathaway's annoyance. The SOCO suit's shoe covers hadn't been enough to keep the ankle-deep mud from launching an all-out assault on James' expensive Italian shoes, or his fancy purple socks. 

"Haven't you ever heard of wellies, lad?" 

"I was given to understand that we were responding to a call-out to a farmer's field, not a sodding peat bog. Dr Hobson." He gave Laura a quick nod, which she returned with a smile. 

"It was rainin' cats and dogs when we left the nick last night," Robbie reminded James. At least, it had been when Robbie left the nick. Three clues clicked into place all at once, and he sighed. "You didn't go home last night, did you." 

Hathaway shot him a slanted glance. "We'll make a detective of you yet, sir." 

The flippant words were obviously calculated to change the subject, but Robbie couldn't just let it go. Not when his sergeant had given him a mini-heart attack by not answering his phone. And definitely not when he was reporting to work in yesterday's clothes and with shadows under his eyes. Everyone had their limits, even James. 

"What did I tell you about cutting down on the late nights and getting more beauty sleep?" he asked. 

"I'd rather given that up as a lost cause, sir." 

"What were you doing, anyway?" 

Hathaway shrugged. "Finishing up the report on the MacLaine case." The one they'd cracked at ten last night. 

"Didn't you sleep at all?" 

"Caught a few winks on the rec room sofa." 

Those "few winks" hadn't been enough to erase the lines of exhaustion from James' face. "Daft lad," Robbie said, shaking his head. 

"And here I thought I'd get a pat on the back and a 'well done, Hathaway' for my attention to duty." 

"If you two have quite finished your lovefest," Laura began. They both shot her a glare, which she took with her usual equanimity. "If you want to take a look at the corpse _in situ_ , James, better get on with it, otherwise I'm going to clear it to be moved to the mortuary." 

Robbie repeated what Laura had told him as James crouched over the body, his eyes running over it. He frowned suddenly. 

"Know him?" Robbie asked, semi-hopefully. If Hathaway already knew the identity of their corpse, that would make things a lot easier...but then Robbie thought the better of it. If he had to pull James off the case for a conflict of interest and get stuck with one of the other DSes over the weekend, that would just take the biscuit. He'd rather do an unidentified with James than an open-and-shut with anyone else. 

"No," Hathaway said after a moment, and Robbie breathed a small sigh of relief. "Cause of death?" 

"Hard to tell at present. There are some flesh wounds on the back, for example here and here," Laura responded. 

"Like he was beaten?" Robbie squinted. 

"Whipped," James said grimly, pulling himself back up to his full height. 

"That's probably right, but I'll need to take a closer look to be certain," Laura confirmed. "Unlikely to be the cause of death, though." 

"Time?" 

"From the body temp and degree of rigor mortis, I'd say a good six to ten hours." 

"And did he die here?" 

"No signs that it was, no signs that it wasn't. Any blood would have washed away in the rain." 

"So, unidentified body, no cause of death, place of death uncertain," Robbie repeated, trying to rein in his frustration and failing. 

Hathaway shot him an indecipherable Look. 

"Give us a chance, Robbie," Laura chided. "Once we have him back in the mortuary, clean him up, you can get started with fingerprints and a photo. I'll even perform the PM right after breakfast." 

"Thanks, Laura," Robbie said gratefully. 

"Speaking of the PM, I was cc'ed on that edict of Innocent's. Apparently some of you hotshot detectives have been getting a little sloppy with your evidence-handling." 

Robbie and James exchanged a glance. "Not us," they denied, in chorus. 

"Oh, I don't know about that. You two are rather cavalier about scene suits and gloves, you know." Hathaway raised his non-existent eyebrows at Robbie, and Robbie gave him an I-don't-know-what-she's-going-on-about look back. 

"Anyway," Laura pressed on, "to remind you of the myriad difficulties of gathering and preserving forensic evidence, every detective in the division was to attend one post-mortem within the following month. That was sent three weeks ago, which means you'd better step to. Everyone else already has." 

"All right. Hathaway'll attend," Robbie decided. 

"Me? Why do I have to go first?" 

Robbie didn't particularly want to say that it was because the corpse on the ground fit a demographic that included two people he cared very much about. "Well, you noticed the whip marks and all, so I thought you might have something useful to contribute," he hedged. 

"We'll let him go just this once, won't we, Hathaway? He can stand us breakfast at the Big Bang," Laura said with a mischievous grin. 

Hathaway's pale face seemed to have acquired a greenish tint. "All right, but could we possibly make breakfast _post_ -post-mortem? And post-a change of socks?" 

* * * 

James leaned his head against the cool wall of the mortuary and surreptitiously checked his jacket pocket for his smelling salts. He didn't particularly want to have to use them in front of Dr Hobson, but the "proper breakfast" of eggs, toast and bacon Lewis had insisted on buying him in addition to the black coffee he'd requested was sitting uneasily in his stomach, and he wanted to make a fool of himself in front of Dr Hobson even less. 

"All right, Hathaway?" Dr Hobson was girded for war in her apron of green, and giving him a piercing look that made him feel as naked as the body on the slab. 

"Quite all right, thank you." He walked over to stand next to the autopsy table, hands clasped behind his back. 

Dr Hobson nodded, and switched on the recorder. He listened as she identified the body – with a temporary alphanumeric label, since they didn't know the man's name – as well as herself and his presence. "Feel free to make useful contributions," she told him with a grin, snapping on her gloves and getting to work. 

She chatted freely as she worked – "this part'll be really dull, otherwise, just cleaning up". "Anything useful from Stetton?" she asked. 

"Not unless you count the paeans of praise to his bloodhound." 

"Didn't you like Timmy the dog, then?" Dr Hobson tutted. 

"Given how proud it looked for hauling us all out of bed at four in the morning, no, not really. But it was Stetton who bothered me more." 

"Why's that?" 

"Most people are shocked when they find a body, but he took it in stride. Worst thing about the whole event was losing a few rows of cabbages. He seemed to relish the prospect of telling his story down the pub." 

"People process death in different ways," Dr Hobson shrugged. "Morse was terrible with dead bodies, did you know? Could hardly bring himself to look at them." She had a fond smile on her face when she recalled Lewis' old governor. 

"He wouldn't have liked Chief Superintendent Innocent's edict, then." 

"No more than you do." 

"I'm all right with corpses," James objected. He'd never had any qualms joining the police force over the fact that he'd be constantly exposed to dead bodies. As a parish priest, he'd have had to deal with the dead and dying often enough anyway, though probably not quite so many who had met their end so prematurely. "It just feels like...a waste." It wasn't quite the right word, but he couldn't think of one that could quite capture the enormity of what he meant. A subversion of God's will? _That_ would go down well with Laura Hobson.

Returning to his previous train of thought, he continued, "Stetton's probably the only person whose day hasn't been ruined by his discovery." 

There was a silence, and when he looked up, Dr Hobson was smiling directly at him. His insides curled with dread. " _What_?" 

"It was awfully sweet of you to work so hard so that Robbie'd be able to get off early to see Lyn." 

James indicated the recorder. "You do realise that your calling me 'sweet' just went on official record?" 

"It's all right. I won't put it in the final report." There were times when James wondered whether the Devil himself was behind that twinkle in the pathologist's eyes. 

"You won't tell him," James said, hoping his voice contained the right admixture of plea and pride. 

Dr Hobson gave him a pitying look. "You know as well as I do that Robbie'll work it out for himself, eventually." 

Yes, Lewis would. God help him. 

* * * 

Jean Innocent's hairdo, Robbie had discovered, was the single most reliable indicator of her general level of stress. It was psychological, he figured – the tighter her hair was tied, the tighter the control she felt over her surroundings. 

Today, she was wearing the severest bun Robbie had ever seen. He privately gave thanks for Hathaway's report, and for his own foresight in grabbing it off his desk on his way to see Innocent. 

"Hooper said you wanted to see me first thing, ma'am." 

"Yes, Lewis. Where's Hathaway?" Innocent asked, her voice brisk. 

"Suffering through a PM with Dr Hobson, as per your orders," Robbie said dryly. 

Innocent relaxed enough to crack a smile. "About time. Don't forget to do it yourself. But first, I want you to transfer the MacLaine case to DI Peterson. He'll finish up the paperwork, free you up for this new case." 

"No need, ma'am. Hathaway finished it last night. Case report, charge sheet, all there." Robbie handed over the folder. 

"Very commendable," Innocent said, flipping through the report quickly. It was obvious that what she saw lifted her mood. The bun looked looser already. "Tell him good work from me." 

"I will, thanks, ma'am." 

"So. Tell me about this body in the farmer's field." 

Robbie briefed Innocent on what little they knew, and she nodded as she took it in. "Keep me posted." 

"Will do, ma'am." He turned to go. 

"Oh, Robbie, one more thing," she said. 

"Ma'am?" 

"Hathaway is your subordinate." 

Robbie blinked. "Er, yes, ma'am, I'm aware of that." He turned back reluctantly, not much liking the way this conversation was going. The senior officers had been subjected to a seminar on sexual harassment in the workplace a month ago, conducted by a speaker who kept referring to their junior counterparts as their "subordinates", and now the two terms were indelibly linked in Robbie's mind. 

"Which means you have a duty of care towards him," Innocent continued. 

Robbie frowned. "And therefore, ma'am?" 

"Well, he's obviously been working very hard. Make sure he gets some rest. I don't want him keeling over in the middle of a murder investigation." 

Robbie gave an inward sigh of relief. Not sexual harassment, then, just general concern for Hathaway's welfare. He wondered what had brought it on. "With respect, ma'am, assigning us this case isn't exactly going to help. This _was_ supposed to be our free weekend." 

"Yes, I'm sorry about that, Lewis, but everyone else is still knee-deep in cases from last week. Just make sure he doesn't overdo it, all right?" 

"He's a grown man, ma'am. He knows how to take care of himself," Robbie tried to reassure her, although he wasn't all that sure about that himself. He idly wondered whether DCS Strange had ever had similar conversations with Morse about him. He dismissed the idea immediately. Morse had been the one who'd needed the looking after. Robbie'd had Val. 

Who did Hathaway have? Who had he ever had? 

"I'm just saying, Robbie, look after him. Because much as I appreciate James' efficiency, the next time I see a report that's obviously been written at two a.m., it's you I'm going to come after." She brandished the offending folder at him menacingly. 

Talk about being between a rock and a hard place. Robbie held up his arms in surrender. "All right, ma'am. I'll try and talk some sense into him. I have tried, in point of fact. But you know what he's like." 

Innocent gave him an exasperated look. "You're his superior officer, Lewis. Order him home if it's late. Tuck him into bed if you have to!" 

"Right, ma'am," Robbie said hastily, before she could suggest even more extreme measures. "By the way, how was it so obvious that report was written at two a.m.?" 

Innocent flipped the report to the last page, then turned it around to show him the damning evidence. "Because, Lewis, erudite as your esteemed sergeant is, even he knows better – when he's in his right, sleep-undeprived mind – than to quote Cicero at the end of a report." 

"Who's he when he's at home?" 

Innocent gave him a glare. 

"I'll...make sure it doesn't happen again?" 

"You'd better," she told him, and Robbie made good his escape before Innocent could harangue him further. 

* * * 

Gradually, painstakingly, the corpse transformed from a mud sculpture to something resembling the moulted husk of a human soul. Once the body had been cleaned and straightened – with great and memorable difficulty – Dr Hobson had one of her minions take photographs of the corpse and run them up along with the fingerprints and dental record. She took samples from each of the bodily orifices, and a blood sample, and had them sent along to Forensics as well. Finally they turned to the real work of the post-mortem. 

The first thing that came to light was a rather distinctive identifying mark on the victim's belly, just above the crotch. "That's a brand, isn't it?" James asked, suppressing a shudder. He'd seen animals branded as a kid, at the working farms that dotted the Mortmaigne estate, and it had seemed cruel enough then. 

"It is," Dr Hobson confirmed, running a finger over the raised, bumpy surface. "But someone didn't like it." The brand was criss-crossed by a fresh X-shaped pair of scars. 

"As if one person was asserting ownership over him and a second person denied it. What's it shaped like?" The scars made it a bit hard to interpret, but they finally agreed that it was supposed to be a palm tree. 

"It must have been pretty professional work, to get a design this complex to work as a brand," Hobson mused. "The degree of inflammation would make it much more difficult than tattooing." 

Their next step was to catalogue the list of what James had correctly diagnosed as whip marks. They ran all up and down the front and back of the body, and Dr Hobson painstakingly recorded each and every one. "There are also signs of faded whip marks," she reported. 

"How old would you say?" James asked, looking at the pale white marks under the angry red ones, so faint as to be barely visible except to someone who knew exactly what he was looking for. 

"Months? Years? Hard to tell. After he'd grown, for the most part." 

Small mercies. "But these wouldn't have been enough to kill him," James said. He immediately wished he'd phrased it as a question when Hobson shot him a glance tinged with suspicion. 

"Not unless he was a haemophiliac, which we'll be able to tell from the bloodwork. No, these weren't the cause of death." 

"Then what was?" 

"There's some bruising on the back of the head," she said, brushing away the blond hair to show them to him. "But that's not enough to kill him either." She moved down the face a little. " _Ah_ ," she said significantly, using a scope to peer down the victim's nostrils. 

"What?" 

Dr Hobson inserted a speculum into the right nostril and scraped, then showed him the result under a magnifying glass. "Grains of sand." 

"So he was asphyxiated, close enough to the ground to be able to breathe in sand," James said, thinking quickly. "That means he could have been pushed into the ground so he couldn't breathe, or he could have been buried alive?" 

The transformation was so sudden he didn't realise it was happening until she was in full-blown panic attack mode. Then he remembered what he'd said and what she had experienced, and connected them too late. 

_James Hathaway, you are a first-class idiot._

"Laura, it's me, it's James, you're all right. You can breathe. You're all right." He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him, checking all the boxes. Familiar names. Reassurance. Repetition. Straight out of the pastoral care manual. 

It didn't work. It had worked the last time. Because then the physical stimulus had been removed, but this time the stimulus was in her own mind, and therefore it couldn't just go away. Or maybe because he'd been so relieved, pure instinct had taken over, but this time... 

He was overthinking this. The solution was obvious. Keeping one arm around her, he fished his mobile out with the other and hit speed-dial 1. "Sir, it's Laura. She's having a flashback." Lewis didn't reply, but he knew from the immediate termination of the call that he was on his way. "Laura, Robbie's coming. You'll be all right." 

Still it didn't get through. The minutes ticked away as James tried and abandoned more and more improbable ways of calming her. A change of environment. Her office. No, that would take them past a whole bunch of hospital folk, and he suspected she wouldn't want them to see her in this state. Encouraging her to breathe. One, two. One, two. No, that wasn't penetrating either. 

James knew he'd reached rock-bottom when all his supposedly clever mind and vaunted education could come up with was: what about a kiss? The fairy tale solution to break all spells. He dismissed the idea instantly – smoker's breath, not to mention the non-zero probability of winding up on a slab next to their corpse once she realised what he'd done. 

An eternity later, Lewis burst through the swing doors, and James thankfully relinquished his charge. "There now, lass, it's Robbie, you're going to be fine," Lewis soothed. 

How did he do it? The words were similar, but they sounded so different coming out of his governor's mouth, so full of love and caring and certainty, a promise of protection you knew he was going to keep. 

And the magic worked. Before long, Laura was extricating herself from Lewis' embrace, wiping away her tears and looking rather shame-faced. "Sorry. I can't think what came over me." 

"It's all right, lass. What brought it on?" 

"My fault, sir," James volunteered, feeling wretched inside for having dragged her through that nightmare once more. "I said something thoughtless." 

Lewis turned his frank, appraising gaze on James. "Thoughtless? _You_?" 

Laura hiccupped a laugh. "It's all right, James. It's my fault for being silly. Should be able to make it through an asphyxiation PM without being triggered any more." 

"Entirely understandable," James reassured her. 

"I can't believe I broke down on the record," Laura said, looking mournfully at the traitorous recorder, its timestamp still climbing. 

"Don't worry," he told her. "You don't have to put it down on the official report." 

That brought a smile to Laura's face at last, and she took a pause to clean her face and put on a new, uncontaminated apron and gloves. 

"Thank you," she said, smiling sweetly at them as she came back to the table. " _Both_ of you." 

James hadn't done anything to actually help, but he nodded anyway. 

"So, Robbie, are you going to stay?" Laura asked, her tone becoming brisk once more, making it clear she expected the answer to be "yes". 

"I'm beginning to think this was all an elaborate ploy to get me in on this PM," Lewis complained, his tone joking. 

Laura took a deep breath, then continued with the post-mortem, announcing Lewis' presence and summarising her discoveries so far. "Taking into account the bruises on the back of the head, I believe these findings are consistent with his head being pushed into the sand, and being held down so that he couldn't breathe." 

"That would have been quite a struggle. Big lad like that," Lewis observed. 

Six foot two, Dr Hobson had measured, about James' own size and build. 

"It wasn't a pleasant way to go," she agreed. 

"As if all this wasn't already enough." Lewis' voice grew rough as he gestured vaguely at the scars from the whipping. 

For one mad moment, James fought the irrational urge to exchange places with the man on the slab, just to be the recipient of Lewis' compassion. He took a deep breath and the feeling passed. He needed no one's pity. 

"Actually, Robbie, it wouldn't have been such a struggle," Laura was explaining. "There are marks consistent with him having been handcuffed. Wrists and ankles." They'd noted that in their preliminary examination. 

"What about his mouth?" James asked. "Is there sand in his mouth too?" 

Dr Hobson took a swab obligingly. "No, there isn't," she said, sounding surprised. 

"If he was struggling to breathe, he should have got some of the sand in his mouth too, shouldn't he?" Lewis said. 

"Not if he was gagged, sir." 

Dr Hobson nodded approvingly at his deduction. "I'll probably find traces of it when I do the dental examination. Bits of fibre." 

"Or rubber," James added. 

"You were saying 'sand'," Lewis said. "So it wasn't soil, or mud?" 

"No. He didn't die in Stetton's field," Dr Hobson said, her tone definitive. "In fact, I'm not an expert, but I'm fairly sure that he didn't die in Oxfordshire. This sand didn't come from river deposits. It's coastal in origin – look how round the grains are. Our victim died on a beach somewhere." 

Lewis' eyebrows went up. "Well, then. Maybe this isn't our problem after all." 

" _If_ we can figure out which police force's jurisdiction the murder actually occurred in," James added. And if Lewis could bring himself to relinquish the case. He didn't like leaving a case even nine-tenths done. 

"I'll get Forensics analysing the sand particles. They may be able to narrow down where it came from. Right. One last thing. You may want to avert your eyes, James." 

"Why?" Lewis asked. "Oh, you're looking for signs of..." 

"'Funny business' is, I believe, the fashionable term," Dr Hobson said impishly. Lewis coloured. 

James couldn't resist. "Really? Times have changed. Last I heard, it was 'rumpy-pumpy'." 

"All right, that's enough out of you two," Lewis growled, as James and Laura exchanged triumphant grins. "Well?" 

"Signs of penetrative sex. And it was rough," Dr Hobson said after a while, during which James kept his eyes obediently averted. "You'll have to wait for the sample to be analysed to see if we can isolate any DNA." 

"So he was tied, gagged, beaten, raped, and then smothered," Lewis summarised, shaking his head. 

"Thanks, Robbie, you just wrote the official report for me." Dr Hobson glanced at her watch, then announced to the recorder a pause in the proceedings and pressed 'stop'. "Right then. Off you go. Shoo." 

Lewis and James exchanged a puzzled glance. "What about the internal PM?" James asked. 

"You know and I know that you both don't want to be here for that, smelling salts or no smelling salts," Laura said pointedly. 

"But what about you, will you be okay?" James asked awkwardly. He didn't want her to have to cope alone with another panic attack. 

Lewis and Dr Hobson seemed to exchange a glance, before Laura replied, "I'll be all right, James. Thanks. For being here. You too, Robbie." 

"And what about Innocent?" 

"Just promise me that you'll take more care with scene suits and gloves in future, and I'll officially record you as being present, since you were. In a manner of speaking." 

James exchanged a look with Lewis. "Scout's honour," they swore. 

"You'll get my report in the afternoon." 

"And we're just a phone call away if you ever need us," Lewis reminded her. 

"I know," Laura said sweetly. "Now, get the hell out of my mortuary." 

They fled. 

* * * 

The nick was buzzing with activity when they returned, so Hathaway didn't bother to mute the accusatory tone in his voice as he said, "You got off easy back there." 

"Not much more than you did," Robbie shot back. 

"You weren't there when they straightened the _rigor_ out of the _mortis_. That'll fuel the nightmares for the next few weeks." 

And what's been fuelling the nightmares up till now, lad, Robbie wanted to ask, but this was hardly the time or the place. He docketed it in his mind for future enquiries. 

"By the way, sir, thank you." 

"What for?" Robbie asked absently, nodding at a passing Uniform. 

"For coming to my rescue, back there. I'm...not very good at that sort of thing." 

"Years of practice from calming the kids down after they'd had a nightmare, man. It's easy when you know how. Didn't anyone do that for you, when you were a wee one?" 

James froze for an instant in the process of opening the door to their shared office, then thawed out enough to go inside. "Did you brief Innocent on the case yet, sir?" he asked irrelevantly. 

Robbie gave a mental sigh and added yet another item to the docket. "Yeah, and I turned your report in at the same time." 

"What did she say?" 

"That she was sorry to have assigned it to us, but everyone else's still hard at work clearing their bits of last week's mess." 

"In other words, we're paying the penalty for our efficiency," Hathaway said, looking contrite. 

"Not _our_ efficiency, man. _You_ were too efficient. I just plodded along behind you." The look of contrition deepened, which annoyed Robbie a little. It was always one thing or another with James, wasn't it? If he wasn't thinking he was bollocks at his job, which he wasn't, he was kicking himself for being too good at it. "I'm just kidding, lad," Robbie hastened to say. "You do good work. Innocent said as much when she read the report." 

"How'd she know it was mine?" 

"Because I'm not a smartarse who concludes reports with obscure quotations, much less in the original Latin," Robbie said dryly. 

At least Hathaway had the good grace to look mildly embarrassed. "Did I? Which quotation was it?" 

"If you'd gone home at a decent hour, like I told you to, you'd remember." 

"I probably wouldn't even have written it," James admitted. 

Robbie briefly considered telling him about the bollocking Innocent had given him over it, but decided against it. James was resistant enough to any sort of interference in his own affairs as it was, and he wasn't likely to take it any better if he knew the order had ultimately come from the Chief Super. 

"At least the report's done. That's one less thing to worry about today." Robbie looked at the whiteboard, which was looking pretty sparse at the moment – he'd put up the victim's initial photographs and date of death, but that was all. Now they knew more, but it still didn't add up to an identity. Perhaps Julie had had some luck. 

"No match with the fingerprints, sir," DC Lockhart reported, as soon as she entered the office. "As for Missing Persons, my search turned up quite a few tall, blond young men, but no one bearing an exact physical resemblance." 

"'Quite a few'?" Hathaway repeated. "What does that mean?" 

"Gurdip calculated that the number of missing tall, blond young men exceeds their incidence in the population by a statistically significant margin." Julie grinned at Hathaway. "Better watch out, Sarge." 

"All right, Julie. Thanks. Keep looking, will you?" Robbie said. 

She promised to try, and ducked out of the office. 

"Died on a sandy beach somewhere." Robbie returned to his musings. That fact had been bothering him all the way from the mortuary. "The nearest seaside is a good hour's drive. Why dump the corpse in a farmer's field in Oxfordshire? Why not just chuck it into the sea and let it wash away?" And let him have his proper weekend off? 

"Sir." 

"What?" 

Hathaway had a tentative look on his face, the look he had whenever he had to tell Robbie that he was getting too close to a witness or mention a fatal car accident. "Are we going to start investigating this, sir? Because you know we'll have to transfer the case eventually." 

It was a tempting thought, with Manchester and his grandson beckoning, and if he went to Innocent now with an update, she'd probably say to concentrate on figuring out which police force to hand the case over to. But the image of that poor, nameless boy lying on the slab was in Robbie's head now. 

"There has to be a good reason that the lad's body was dumped here. Like as not, he was from here, or maybe his murderer is. And even if we do hand it over, we'll still have to help out with the Oxfordshire part of the investigation. Might as well get cracking, see if we can't give them the name of the victim. And the name of the murderer, while we're at it." 

"Right, sir." Hathaway crossed over to the whiteboard and uncapped a marker. "In answer to your questions – could be any number of reasons for leaving the body in Stetton's field, but none of them seem very likely. It doesn't seem as if there was anything significant about that field. It just happened to be by the road. The burial was pretty perfunctory, too. Once the rains came they just washed away the topsoil and exposed the body. Stetton said Timmy barely had to dig to find it." 

Robbie read the rest of what Hathaway had written. "Tied, gagged, beaten, raped – or, at least, had sex – smothered to death. Someone didn't like the lad very much. That's torture, that is." 

Hathaway frowned at him. "Aren't we making a pretty big assumption, sir?" 

"Which is?" 

"That whoever tied, gagged, beat and had sex with our victim also killed him. What if he was alright with the tying, gagging, beating and the sex?" 

"What, you think our victim underwent all that _voluntarily_?" Robbie asked incredulously. 

"In the beginning, possibly. I was just thinking that he might have been into BDSM." 

"BDSM?" 

"Bondage and domination, sadism and masochism," Hathaway spelt out helpfully. 

"Yeah, I know what it stands for," Robbie said testily. It still amazed him how James could be all innocent choirboy one moment, walking dictionary of erotica the next. "Even if you put aside the fact that the lad _died_ , don't you think that was a bit harsh?" 

"Yes, I do," Hathaway conceded. "And strictly speaking, trust and attention to safety are very important in BDSM culture. So I understand," he added hastily, catching Robbie's eye. "But maybe this was someone who got terribly carried away." 

"Or just never cared for the rules in the first place." 

"Or perhaps not even the same person. But our victim could have been part of the BDSM community. The brand is the key clue. It was old, Dr Hobson said. A lot older than the worst of the whipmarks." 

"Okay, I'll bite. Where can we find out more about this 'BDSM community'?" 

Hathaway turned to his computer and began typing. "We're in luck, sir," he announced after a moment. "There's a BDSM convention going on at the Holborne Hotel. Three days, beginning today." 

"They have conventions for these things?" And why did Robbie get the feeling that James already knew exactly what search terms to type into Google? 

"Looks like every tattoo artist in Oxford will be there," Hathaway continued, scrolling. "One of them may have done the brand. If not, we can ask around for someone who does." 

So Hathaway was inviting him to a BDSM convention? They'd be the laughingstocks of the nick if anyone else found out. And yet – somewhere out there, there was a murderer on the loose. Somewhere out there, there was a father wondering where his son had got to. They owed the lad his name and some justice. 

"All right, it's worth a punt," he said finally. "Sounds like the most efficient way to get a hold of our victim's identity. Let's go, James." He got up and reached for his jacket. 

Hathaway obviously hadn't been expecting him to agree quite so readily. He blinked, then stood up himself and fished out his wallet. 

"What, people _pay_ to go to these things?" Robbie asked, appalled. 

"Twenty quid each." 

"You know, we could just wave our warrant cards and demand entry. Privilege of the police." 

"And everyone would probably instantly shut up and not tell us a thing. Better to be discreet at these things, don't you think, sir? For efficiency's sake. Besides," – a cheeky glint came into Hathaway's eyes – "we can get fifty percent off the second ticket if we ask for the couple's discount." 

Now he really was taking the mickey. "All right. But just for that, you get to be the one who presents the expense report to Innocent at the end of the investigation," Robbie threatened. 

The smirk instantly vanished off James' face. He examined his wallet once more and gave a long-suffering sigh. 

"We'll just consider it my treat, shall we, sir?" 

Couple's discount it was, then. 


	2. Chapter 2

Robbie had half-thought that they'd be required to do something ridiculous to prove they were a couple, but the girl at the ticket desk took Hathaway's thirty quid without a word. She handed them two of those rubber wristbands that seemed all the rage these days, and waved them into the convention "hall", really a large room in a rather tired-looking hotel that probably couldn't afford to say no to any event booking, however controversial. Still, it didn't seem likely that anyone else would be paying attention to the threadbare patches on the carpet.

"Feeling out of place, sir?" James asked, just audible over the noise of the crowd and the blaring music.

"Just feeling a little overdressed, is all," Robbie muttered. Honestly, there was no safe place to park his eyes around here. He'd always considered himself an open-minded bloke, but everywhere he looked, there were a few square inches of naked flesh just to the right of where he drew the line on public decency. He was grateful now that James had had the foresight – or was it experience? – to suggest that they change into more casual clothes.

Hathaway wasn't looking too out of place himself, in his body-hugging long-sleeved T-shirt and skinny jeans. James had advised the change on the grounds that they didn't want to attract too much attention to themselves, but fat chance of that with his sergeant looking so young and – to borrow Laura Hobson's word – dishy. It hadn't escaped his notice that James had been getting not a few interested looks, and they hadn't even been here five minutes.

"If you'd like to look like you fit in better, sir, you could always put me on a leash," Hathaway offered blandly, nodding towards a distant stall that seemed to sell nothing but.

Robbie snorted. _Cheeky bastard._ "Keep that up, and I'll throw in one of them gags while I'm at it," he threatened, nodding at its neighbour.

"Might make it a little hard to ask questions, sir." James' grin upticked triumphantly.

"Speaking of which, let's get to work and get out of here as soon as we can."

James retreated right back into business mode. "Yes, sir."

James had been right about another thing: the emphasis on health and safety. Every attendee had to pass through a gauntlet of "nurses" wearing uniforms Robbie had never seen in any hospital, who were handing out brochures on everything from how to practise safe sex to how to tie someone to the ceiling upside-down without hurting them. They collected a handful of leaflets each, tried to ignore the live demo, and made their escape as soon as possible.

"Have these people ever even been _in_ a hospital?" Robbie said, as soon as they were out of earshot. "The patients'd have a collective heart attack if their nurses dressed like that!"

"I don't think realism is the point, sir."

"Why nurses, anyway? Why cultivate a fetish about someone who sticks you with needles and fusses at you to finish your jelly?"

James smiled indulgently at him. "People will cultivate fetishes about just about anything, sir. Exhibit B." He nodded at the next booth along, which was manned by several muscular men in very familiar uniforms.

" _No_ ," Robbie said, appalled.

"At least they're the older uniforms, otherwise we might have to arrest them for impersonating police officers," Hathaway remarked.

By mutual and silent consent, they bypassed the stalls hawking costumes – including the one selling religious vestments, to Robbie's amusement and, judging by the pink of his ears and his desperate looking around for some kind of distraction, Hathaway's consternation.

"Don't look now, sir, but there's a friend of yours."

"Who? Where?" Robbie had thought it far more likely that they'd run into an acquaintance of Hathaway's.

Hathaway nodded over to where a woman Robbie recognised as Marion Hammond was holding court over a band of admirers, doubtless peddling her artistic philosophy on post-lapsarian soft porn. "Ah, sod it, better not let her see us. C'mon."

"Hmm?" Hathaway seemed mesmerised by the goods on display in the bondage section.

"We're here for work, Sergeant," Robbie reminded him.

"Right," Hathaway muttered. "This way, sir." Hathaway led the way towards the body modification section of the convention. Here they were frequently engaged in conversation by keen vendors hawking everything from corsets to nipple rings, and Robbie's fears of sticking out like a sore thumb gradually faded away. Everyone seemed to automatically assume – extrapolating from Hathaway's constant sirring, Robbie supposed; he'd never been able to break James of that habit, even in private – that they were just a couple taking their first baby steps into the world of BDSM. It suddenly occurred to Robbie that that should probably bother him more than it actually did.

"I've got a name, sir," Hathaway said quietly, drawing him away. "Leon Williams, a well-known tattoo artist in the area who's 'diversified' into other experimental means of marking the human body. His booth's over there."

"Do those experimental means include branding?" Robbie asked as they crossed in the direction Hathaway had pointed out.

"We'll find out... _I beg your pardon_!" Robbie turned when he heard James' appalled exclamation, and looked round in time to see him bat a hand away from his arse. Said hand belonged to a mustachioed man wearing dark glasses and a brown fedora, who looked as if he'd been taking hints from a kiddies' manual on the art of disguise.

Robbie didn't stop to think. He landed a protective hand on James' shoulder and uttered a stern "Oi, hands off, mate." The man scuttled. James shot him a grateful look.

"Protective, isn't he? You lucky boy," a voice called from the nearest stall.

"Very lucky," Hathaway agreed, flashing Robbie a quick grin. Robbie glared back – James was laying it on a bit thick.

"Leon?" he asked the owner of the voice, as if he didn't already know the answer. If the gigantic sign bearing his name on the booth hadn't been a big enough clue, Leon was a walking advertisement for his own business. An intricate and rather breath-taking tattoo in the form of a Celtic knot snaked along the length of his right arm and continued onto his torso, visible under his open shirt.

"That's me, darling. Leon Williams. Best tattoo artist in all of Oxford." He didn't seem at all fazed by the fact that he was surrounded by every other tattoo artist in Oxford, all making the same claim, but oozed a flashy confidence. If the tattoo he sported was any indication, he had good reason to. He winked at Robbie. "And heed my advice, you'll want to stamp your mark of ownership on this one, before someone else comes along and steals him away."

Robbie exchanged a look with James, figuring this was as good an opening as any. "Any suggestions?"

Leon's flirty banter transformed instantly into salesman's patter. "You've come to the right man. Here, I'll show you a few of my designs."

Though Robbie didn't much approve of the practice, and would have had many stern words to say if Lyn or Mark had ever come home with a tattoo, he had to admit that Leon's designs were truly works of art. He had a whole coffee-table book displaying his work, and, as he told them, "several live examples walking around this room".

"Like yourself," Robbie said.

"Yes, that's right. I'm trying to train up my right hand to be as good as my left, so I can finally get round to doing the other arm," Leon chuckled.

"Are tattoos all you do, Leon?" Robbie asked.

"Why, did you have something else in mind?"

Robbie attempted a casual shrug. "Branding, say?" he asked. James put on a suitably alarmed look.

"Ooooh, getting serious right out of the gate, eh? Don't worry, darling, it'll hurt like hell, but I'll make it very, very worth it."

"That's not very reassuring," James said.

"But anything for your master, eh? I'll show you some of the brands I've done. I think I've a folder somewhere...ah, here. It's not as popular as tattoos, you understand. Pricier, for one, but then again, they're guaranteed to last a lifetime."

"And beyond," James added. 

Robbie shot him a quelling glance. He flipped through a few pages before lighting on a familiar palm tree-shaped design.

"That looks rather nice, doesn't it, James?"

"If you say so, sir."

"Ah. Well, I can't actually give you that one, that was designed for the exclusive use of one of my clients. But I can design something else for you. Similar, but still unique. Something symbolising the beautiful relationship only the two of you share."

"May I see that, sir?" James made a show of examining the palm tree design, before saying, "Actually, sir, come to think of it, I think I've seen this before. What was his name? He was about my height, blond as well, mid-twenties..."

Leon blinked, his face suddenly becoming worried. He lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper. "That would be one of Terence Palmer's boys." Robbie and James exchanged a significant look. "But for God's sake, don't tell him you've seen that on one of them," Leon continued.

"Why not?"

"Listen, you two are new to the scene, so you won't know who Palmer is or what he's like, and I haven't the foggiest how you ever got to see one of his boys naked, but he's over-protective of them. Trust me, you have nothing on him," Leon said, looking at Robbie. Then he looked towards the crowd and gave a start. "Shit, here he comes." They turned to see a man about Robbie's age striding towards them purposefully. "God, I hope he didn't overhear us," Leon muttered, sounding positively frantic.

"Leon!" Robbie and James almost had to take a step back from the shockwave that preceded the man's booming voice. "Good to see you, man!" He engulfed the tattoo artist in a bearhug so tight it made Leon wince.

"Hello, Terry," he said weakly. "Where are the boys?"

"They're at home. Anton was being a bad boy last night, so I didn't let them come. I'll bring them to the party tonight." Palmer stepped back and seemed to notice Robbie and James for the first time. "New customers, Leon?" he asked jovially, his gaze boldly raking over James in a way Robbie didn't particularly care for.

He'd met this kind of man before, the type who liked to dish it out but didn't like to take it. Robbie took one step forward, firmly interposing himself between Palmer and James. Palmer's eyes narrowed at him, and this time it was Robbie he looked up and down, sizing him up like he was about to throw a punch. But Robbie stood his ground, looked him in the eye, and finally Palmer spoke, his voice cold this time.

"I don't know you. Terry Palmer."

"Robbie Lewis." Robbie offered his hand, but Palmer ignored it. His gaze travelled past Robbie to the folder, still open at the palm tree brand.

"What's this?" he asked, voice booming so loud everyone around them turned to stare. "What are you doing looking at my mark?" If that was how he reacted just to them looking at it on a piece of paper, Robbie was no longer surprised about Leon's reaction to them saying they'd seen it in the flesh.

"Mr Palmer, can we talk somewhere private?" he asked.

"No, I demand to know why you're meddling in my business!"

Robbie decided to get down to brass tacks. "Mr Palmer, is one of your 'boys' missing?"

Palmer turned so starkly crimson that Robbie thought he was going to have a fit. "Yes! What do you know about that? What have you done with Johnny?" Palmer screamed. He didn't wait for an answer, choosing to hurl himself onto Robbie instead.

"Oof" was all Robbie got out before Palmer's weight crushed all the breath out of his body. He hooked a leg around Palmer's knee and rolled him over. Palmer took advantage of a split second's distraction as Robbie gulped down some much-needed oxygen and got him on his back again. They traded dominance a couple of times, and then Palmer suddenly gave a loud scream straight into Robbie's ear and vanished.

Robbie looked up from his position on the patchy carpet to see Palmer struggling uselessly against Hathaway's scientific grip.

"All right there, sir?"

Robbie only nodded back. Breathing was more important. When his lungs were back to working capacity, Robbie pulled himself to his feet, back protesting strenuously. He looked around and realised the scuffle had accumulated quite an audience, most of whom bore incredulous grins. Leon gave Hathaway a surreptitious thumbs-up.

Palmer continued to struggle fruitlessly. "Let go of me, boy!" Being subdued by Hathaway hadn't improved Palmer's temper.

"Sir?" Hathaway looked inquiringly at Robbie for further instructions.

"Let's take this somewhere more private," Robbie ordered. "And you are going to listen, Mr Palmer, because I'm afraid we have some very bad news."

* * *

It was almost worse to have experienced Palmer at his most blustering and overbearing, to see him so completely deflate at the news. They extracted what they could out of him and left him to sob in a corner of the storeroom Leon had helpfully pointed out to them.

"Think he'll be in any state to identify the body?" Robbie knew he should be sympathetic, but somehow Palmer utterly failed to inspire that emotion.

"Not any time soon, sir," Hathaway said wearily. "Shall we call in family liaison?"

"Stretching it a bit to call that a 'family'." Palmer lived with three submissive young men – down to two, now. He'd called them his "sons", but as far as Robbie could see, it was all about the sex.

"I have to get home," Palmer interrupted. The grief on his face was lined with a sudden desperation. "What if someone killed Johnny to spite me? What if they're coming after my other two boys?"

Robbie scratched his ear. It sounded like paranoia to him, but Palmer had a point. Judging by the reaction of the onlookers to his takedown, his "over-protectiveness" hadn't acquired him too many fans among the BDSM community.

"D'you want to call and make sure they're all right?"

"I just want to go home."

"Fine." Robbie gave in. He turned to Hathaway. "Listen, you go look for this flatmate of Johnny's." Unlike Palmer's other two submissives, Johnny had been allowed to live out, sharing a flat with one Randy Daniels. Randy had apparently been the last person to see Johnny alive – as far as Palmer knew, anyway. "See if you can get anything more helpful out of him. I'll get Palmer home."

"No. I don't want you in my house." Palmer stood up, suddenly fierce. He didn't want another alpha male invading his territory. " _He_ can come." He pointed at Hathaway.

"I'm afraid that's not up to you, Mr Palmer," Lewis said, annoyed. Hathaway plucked at his sleeve and drew him away for a private conference.

"Let me go, sir, it'll be more efficient. You interview Daniels, I'll handle this."

"I don't like the idea of you going off with him alone. What if he's the murderer and he chucks you into some dungeon somewhere?" Robbie'd had enough fearing for Hathaway's fate for one day.

"I'll keep in phone contact, sir. If we don't agree, he'll insist on a warrant, and with the weekend coming up it mightn't be till Monday that we get it."

"Okay," Lewis growled reluctantly, after a moment's reflection. "But don't let him try anything funny on you."

"No funny business, got it, sir," Hathaway promised, a wry grin on his face.

* * *

_No funny business_. Easier said than done, James reflected, when the double doors to Palmer's almost-palatial residence swung open to reveal an extremely nude young man. He took one look at Palmer, exclaimed, "What on earth's happened?" and led the weeping man in. James walked in after them, in time to hear Palmer gulp out the bad news and the younger man's exclamations of disbelief.

"Good God. Johnny's dead?" 

James jumped at the unexpected source of the voice – a marbled alcove cut into the entrance hall, which was unexpectedly occupied. James' gaze travelled involuntarily southwards from the chains that bound the alcove's occupant to the wall, as if pulled by gravity. There was no doubt that Palmer did love his blond-haired boys. And he made sure the rest of the world knew it by marking them as his own. James swallowed, embarrassed, and looked away.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you," the young man said off-handedly. Judging by the cheeky grin he was giving James, he didn't seem to object to the inspection. Neither did he seem too distressed by his fellow submissive's death.

"Excuse me. You're from the police, aren't you?" the first man asked from the sofa.

James flashed his warrant card. "Detective Sergeant James Hathaway."

"I'm Kyran Tate. Mind if I take Daddy up to his room? He's in quite a state."

"Yeah. Go ahead," James said automatically, only realising once they were walking up the stairs who that left him alone with.

"Looks like it's down to you and me. Anton Germain. How do you do?" The man in the alcove wriggled the fingers of his right hand, but there was no way in hell James was going to shake hands with him in that state.

"Where's the key?" James asked abruptly.

"Oh, no need for that." Anton twisted his wrist in a complicated manoeuvre James didn't quite catch. Off came one handcuff, then the other, leaving the chains dangling. He caught James' hand and wrung it thoroughly. "Surprised you, didn't I? It's a safety measure, in case the house burns down or something while Terry's away."

"Very wise," James murmured, withdrawing his hand as soon as politeness allowed.

Anton leaned back and surveyed James up and down. "So you're a policeman. Rather more casually dressed than I'd have expected, but that's all to the good, isn't it? How would you like a tour of the house, James?"

"It's Sergeant Hathaway, and yes. And while we're on the subject of casual dressing, let's make our first stop your closet."

"Why, d'you want to see me come out of it?" Anton waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"This is a murder investigation, Mr Germain," James said severely.

That brought Anton up short. " _Murder_? But why would anyone want to murder _Johnny_? He was the nicest, least offensive fellow on the planet!"

"That's what we're trying to find out. Now, about your clothes?"

"All right, all right." Anton pouted. He went over to a hamper near the door and pulled out some clothes. While he slid on his trousers, James had a good look at his back. He detected some faint red marks on it, but nothing to the degree that Johnny Palmer's back had been scarred.

"Better?" Anton spread his arms and lifted his chin.

"Thank you. When was the last time you saw Johnny?"

"God, it's been a couple of months, at least. We've been searching all over for him. He didn't turn up one day when he was supposed to, and not the next, and not the day after that. His flatmate had no idea where he was, either. By then Terry was frantic. He even considered calling the police to report Johnny as missing."

"Why didn't he?"

Anton rolled his eyes at James. "Oh, please. We knew how you lot would take it. You'd probably think he'd run away from sexual slavery or something."

Probably not too far off the mark, depending on who took the initial report. "But we'd still have looked."

Anton shrugged. "Maybe. I don't think you could have done much more than we did, though. We searched every single place Johnny might have gone, and talked to every single person he knew. Left no stone unturned." He shook his head. "I guess there must have been one place we didn't look. And now Johnny's dead." He sighed, almost theatrically. "Now, where were we?"

"Tour of the house?" James prompted.

"Oh, right. Well," Anton said brightly, "shall we start with the dungeon?"

* * *

Once Hathaway had gone off with Palmer, Robbie set off for the flat Johnny Palmer had once shared with Randy Daniels.

Randy Daniels came flying out the door just as Robbie rang the bell. "Oh, I'm sorry, just on my way out. Would you mind coming back..." He faltered as Robbie flashed his warrant card. "You're from the police?"

"Yes, Mr Daniels. I'm Detective Inspector Lewis. May I come in?"

"But I'm just on my way...look, I do have to be somewhere," he protested, as Robbie put a gentle hand on his back and steered him back inside. He was a dark-haired young man about Johnny Palmer's age, his accent carefully posh.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news concerning your flatmate..." Robbie stopped short. The interior of the flat looked as if it had been hit by a minor hurricane. "Have you had any trouble in here?"

Randy flushed. "Trouble? No trouble. I just wasn't expecting any policemen to barge in unannounced, that's all."

"So this is just the ordinary state of affairs, then?" Robbie sought confirmation.

"No, it's...it's just that Johnny's the one who usually cleans. I got too used to college scouts doing for me, I'm afraid. It's been weeks since Johnny...hang on, didn't you say you had news about him?"

Robbie told him.

"Good God. Johnny? But why? Who? How?" He sounded more curious than shocked.

"That's what we're trying to find out, Randy. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Johnny?"

"Good heavens, no. He was always such an obliging fellow. Besides, he kept himself very much to himself. He only really hung out with Terry Palmer and the rest of his boys."

"You were aware of Johnny's lifestyle, then?"

"Yes. Of course. I'm...in the business myself, so to speak." He grinned at Robbie's raised eyebrows. "World's oldest profession. Unexpectedly lucrative one, too. You'd be the surprised by the level of demand for my services, here in Oxford."

Not quite so surprised, after this morning, Robbie thought.

"All those horny dons, all those ex-public schoolboys out in the working world but only half out of the closet...well, someone's got to keep their grubby paws off those innocent little undergraduates."

If only Hathaway were here, telegraphing his thoughts on their witnesses via silent, meaningful glances. Robbie'd give anything to see James' reaction to this self-styled defender of Oxonian chastity.

"When did you last see Johnny?"

"Let me see...must have been seven weeks ago, now. He just walked out one day and never came back. Tried to ring him, no response."

"And you didn't bother reporting him as missing?"

"Terry Palmer took care of all that. Organised search parties and everything."

"Did Johnny act any differently in the days leading up to his disappearance?"

Randy hesitated. "Well...the night he left, I did get the feeling that something was bothering him. But he sure as hell didn't want to talk to me about it. Just said that he had to go see someone – he didn't give a name – and stalked out. It was pretty odd for him. Which is why I raised the alarm the very next day when he didn't return my calls. Normally I'd have assumed he was at Palmer's."

"Had he received any sort of communication that might have triggered this change of mood?"

Randy shrugged. "Not that I was aware of."

"How did you come to be sharing a flat with Johnny in the first place?"

"We met at Oxford. I graduated, he didn't, but we never went down. Stayed in the area."

"What do you know about his relationship with Terry Palmer?"

"Seemed to suit him. He's the faithful type, Johnny. Like a little dog, devoted to his master." There was a hint of a sneer in Randy's voice.

"Not your sort of relationship, then."

"No, I prefer my relationships a little more...fluid, you might say. He even started calling himself Johnny Palmer, like he was Terry's son. Weird, if you ask me. But then, what's in a name?"

"Do you remember what he called himself before 'Johnny Palmer'?"

"Let me see...I guess we should have a lease around here somewhere that would've had his name on it." Randy gazed helplessly around the room.

Robbie stooped down and picked up a sheet of paper that was lying just by the door. "John Little, was it?"

Randy brightened. "That's it. Funny name to give himself. Funny place to put the lease, for that matter."

"It's not the lease, it's a a demand for payment of back-rent. Probably slid under the door."

"Ah, damn. It's just...Palmer hasn't been sending along the rent cheques, while Johnny's been missing. I suppose he won't be sending any more, now."

"I thought business was going well?"

"Yes, well, unfortunately money seems to slip through my fingers like water. You'd think I'd be better at balancing the budget, given that I read economics at Oxford." Randy shrugged.

"Why did you say 'funny name to give himself'? Was John Little an assumed name, too?" How many names did one man need, and why? What was wrong with the name his parents had given him? And why 'John Little'? Did he fancy himself a sidekick to Robin Hood? If so, who was his Robin Hood?

"Yeah. Johnny went by another name entirely while he was at Oxford. Changed it when he left. What was it now? Nicholas something?"

"You don't remember this one either?"

"No, I'm absolutely horrible at names, I'm afraid."

"You seem to remember Terry Palmer's name all right," Robbie pointed out.

"If you've ever been on the pointy end of Terry Palmer's wrath, you'd never forget his name as long as you live."

"Then can you give me the name of someone who might know, Randy?"

"Let me see...I'm sure that professor bloke would remember. Johnny was very close to him while he was at Oxford. Still sees him once in a while. Or, 'saw', I suppose I should say."

"Can you be any more specific about the name of this 'professor bloke', Randy?" Robbie was beginning to lose his patience.

"Yes, I can, as a matter of fact. I can even give you his phone number. Here it is." Randy pounced triumphantly on a scrap of paper propped up against the landline phone. "Oh, he even wrote his name down. Very obliging of him. Clarence Abbicott. He asked me to call him the instant I heard any news of Johnny. He was very worried about him. I suppose I should call. Unless you could...?"

"Yeah, I'll inform him for you." Robbie took the paper Randy handed to him. "We'll also be wanting to contact Johnny's parents. Did he ever mention them?"

Randy shrugged. "No. He kept mum about his family. I had the feeling they didn't get along. I figured that was why he'd decided to take Palmer's name." Randy's expression turned forlorn. "I guess I'll have to move, now that I know for sure Johnny's not coming back. Not many people can afford a place like this."

Robbie's face must have shown what he thought of Randy's cavalier attitude towards his flatmate's death, because Randy added, "Oh, come on, Inspector. I'm not like Johnny, you know. No rich sugar-daddy. _I_ have to sing for my supper."

"And how long more before your voice breaks?" Robbie asked. He'd seen it before, years ago in Vice in Newcastle. Not so many lads, but plenty of good-looking women who'd fallen out of demand once they'd put on a few more years and a few more stone.

"Oh, you needn't worry about me, Inspector...sorry, what was it again? I'm..."

"Horrible with names. You said. It's Inspector Lewis."

"Inspector Lewis. Sorry. Should write that down." He looked around for a pen. Robbie handed him his card instead. "Thanks. Anyway, as I was saying, don't worry about me. I have a long-term plan in place. Once my personal charms have been exhausted, I'm going into a new profession."

"Oh? What field?"

"Insurance, you could say," Randy gave Robbie a wink that he suspected was supposed to mean something. "Listen, mind if I get going? It's just, there's this convention, you see, and there's a lot of prospective clients..."

Robbie knew exactly which one he meant, although there was no way in hell he was going to tell Randy that. "Go ahead. If you don't mind me having a poke around Johnny's room while you're out?"

"Be my guest. And if you feel like straightening things out while you're looking..." Robbie gave him a glare. "Sorry. It was worth a shot."

"Just one last thing, what were you doing between seven and eleven last night?"

"Last night? I was with a client. Who would be extremely put out if I gave you his name. But if you ask the bellboy on duty last night at the Malmaison, he'll confirm I was there."

"All right. Thanks for your time." With a wriggle of his fingers, Randy was off.

Mindful of Laura Hobson's edict, Robbie donned a pair of gloves, and began to look around Johnny's room. It was pristine in comparison with the rest of the flat, but already a layer of dust was beginning to settle on the furniture. He looked half-heartedly through the books, but that was more Hathaway's scene than his. He'd have to come back later with the Boy Wonder in tow.

Speaking of Hathaway...

The phone rang a heart-stopping seven times before he finally picked up. 

"Bloody hell, James, what took you so long?" he demanded.

"Sorry, sir, I'm rather tied up at the moment."

Robbie glared at the phone. "That had better be a figure of speech, Sergeant."

"Sorry, sir. Association of ideas."

"I can imagine." He briefed Hathaway quickly on what he'd found out from Randy. "I'm off to interview this professor of Johnny's, see if I can get his real name out of him and some background on why he left Oxford without a degree. See you back at the station in a couple of hours?"

"Sir," Hathaway said by way of agreement, and rang off.

* * *

James slipped his mobile back into his jacket pocket and tugged his other hand out of the handcuff. Bloody hell, that had been close.

"I guess that wasn't the best time to demonstrate the safety features of our set-up here," Anton said apologetically, but his eyes were twinkling in merriment.

"Some assistance would have been appreciated," James complained, rubbing his right wrist for relief.

"You were the one who wanted to know the trick to getting out of these handcuffs," Anton retorted. "Desperation is often the best teacher."

"So you can get out of every single cage and chain in here in an emergency."

"Oh, yes. Terry's _very_ careful about things like that." Anton crossed over to a wall, from which dangled more whips, canes and crops than an army of archaeologists, schoolmasters and stablehands should ever need. He ran his finger down one, almost fondly. "Anything that draws blood, or comes into contact with other...bodily fluids, is disinfected after every use."

Hygiene was a handy habit to have when you were suspected of murder, James couldn't help but think. "So you say you were down here all evening, all three of you."

"That's right, till...about midnight, I'd say, though it felt a lot later. I'd mouthed off during dinner, you see, and I got my just deserts. Spent the rest of the evening contemplating my sins, trying to decide which was worse: the ache in my shoulders, or getting penetrated by a..."

"I'll ask for more details when I want them, thanks," James interrupted hurriedly. Anton seemed to have no concept of boundaries, even during a police interview.

Anton gave a philosophical shrug. "Well, I think we've exhausted the charms of the dungeon – the ones you'd let me use on you, anyway. Where to next? D'you want to see Johnny's room?"

"I thought Johnny lived out, in an apartment?"

"Nevertheless, he has a room here," Anton replied, and led him there.

Johnny clearly hadn't considered it  home . There was nothing to personalise it, no books, no pictures, except for a lone photograph standing on a dresser. Otherwise, everything else was neatly stored away, the bed made with near-military precision.

"Why didn't Johnny live here, like you and Kyran? Why did he live in an apartment?" James asked as he closed the wardrobe door on a number of skimpy costumes.

"Because whatever Johnny wanted, Terry gave him. Johnny wanted to feel a measure of independence."

"And you didn't?"

"My arrangement with Terry is very different from Johnny's, or Kyran's. Kyran's the obedient boy. Johnny was the prodigal son. And I'm..."

"The juvenile delinquent?"

Anton applauded. "Got it in one."

James examined the photograph. It showed the four of them – Terry, Johnny, Anton and Kyran – sitting on a sandy beach, the waves lapping at their feet. It was difficult to reconcile the smiling man in the picture with the pale corpse from that morning. "Where was this taken?"

"That would've been near Terry's new beach house, in Dorset."

James hid his excitement at the lead behind a bland "how new?"

"He had it built not many months ago. A _birthday surprise_ for dear Johnny," Anton said, his tone mildly mocking. "Apparently Johnny's mother used to take him to the seaside when he was a child, and he had fond memories of those holidays."

"Expensive present," James noted. "What did you get on your birthday?"

Anton flushed darkly, his good humour vanishing for the first time. "What with the way you're dressed, I thought you were one of us. I forgot I was talking to a policeman with a sharp mind and a sharper tongue." The flush disappeared, and he gave a rueful chuckle. "I got a new collar," he admitted. "And yes, if you really have to know, I _was_ jealous of Johnny. But I wasn't jealous enough to kill him. I'd never do that to Terry."

"D'you genuinely love Terry Palmer?" James asked abruptly.

Anton studied him for a moment, then leaned forward, resting his elbows against the dresser. "I know what you're thinking. Look, everyone thinks that because of how he is with other people, that's how he is with us. But there's a reason they say he's over-protective, rather than just having anger management issues. Because that's what he is. Over-protective _of us_. He genuinely cares. If he were some ogre, we'd have left ages ago. It's not everyday that I'm chained to a hole in the wall, and you've seen that I can get out of that when I want. I can walk out whenever I want to. I can tell him to stop whenever I want to. He mightn't be happy about it, but he'll stop when we use our safewords."

That, at least, had been sincere, James judged. But Anton wasn't done yet.

"You know how there's some people who treat other people most awfully but turn into the gentlest of puppy-dogs when it comes to their own kids?"

"In my experience it's usually the other way around," James said dryly.

Anton shrugged. "Well, that's the nature of your job, isn't it? You meet the scum of the earth. But that's not Terry. He does love us."

"And he shows that love by beating you."

"Only because I actually like it. Oh, don't look at me like that. Underneath that repressed exterior I suspect you're as kinky as any of us. Take that chap you were talking to on the phone, for example," Anton said, his eyes twinkling wickedly. "The one you call 'sir'."

Oh, he was _not_ going there. "Inspector Lewis is my boss. There are such things as police regulations."

"Yeah, well, there's 'sir'," Anton said, in a matter-of-fact tone, "and there's _'sir'_." The second was uttered in a sultry voice that sent a shiver up James' spine. Surely he wasn't quite as transparent as all that.

Anton shot him a knowing grin. "Well, James? How would you like your inspector to bend you over your desk and beat your arse with his police truncheon?"

James resisted the mental image with great force of will. "We'd better return to the task at hand, Anton, or I may very well find out."

* * *

Robbie flashed his warrant card at the porter on duty at Lonsdale College. "Mr Tanner? I'm looking for Professor Abbicott. Is he in his rooms?"

The porter responded with alacrity. "You're in luck, sir, he got back not five minutes ago. Staircase B, second floor."

Abbicott answered the knock on his door carrying a towel and looking rather flustered. His fringe of brown hair striped with white was dripping wet. He must have just been washing his face. "I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting anyone..." He trailed off when he saw Robbie and his warrant card.

"Have we met before?" Robbie asked. The man seemed unfamiliar, yet Robbie had the feeling he'd clapped his eyes on him somewhere.

"Er, no. I don't believe so. I would have remembered a brush with the police." Abbicott said, scraping a hand through his hair nervously. "But you didn't come about me, you came about Nicholas, didn't you?"

"Nicholas?"

"Nicholas...or perhaps you know him as Johnny Palmer."

In twenty-five years of doing this job, this was the first time someone had told him the news he'd come to deliver. "How did you know I was here about him, Professor?" Robbie asked, suspicion building in his mind.

Abbicott turned away and examined the wall of books behind him. "I've been expecting this visit for two months now, ever since Nicholas disappeared. He's dead, isn't he?"

"I'm afraid so. I understand you two were close?"

"Close, well – I was his tutor. We kept in touch even after he decided that Oxford wasn't his cup of tea. When I found out he went missing, I tried to pursue my own inquiries, but got nowhere. And I know that Palmer didn't get anywhere, either. I knew that Nicholas wouldn't just disappear on his own, so my conclusion was that he must be dead."

Robbie took out his notebook. "What was Nicholas' last name, Professor? The one he came to Oxford with?"

"Oh, er – Pelgrin. Nicholas Owen Pelgrin."

"And can you tell me, sir, just for form's sake, where you were last night between the hours of seven and eleven?"

"Last night...let's see. Ah." Abbicott coloured a little. "I was at the Cowley Retreat."

"The student bar?"

"Er – yes. It's convenient," Abbicott said, a touch on the defensive side.

"I can think of ten pubs nearer by."

"I like the atmosphere," Abbicott said, his colour rising. "Anyway, I was just there for a drink. A series of drinks, to be more precise. The bartender will remember me. I was there quite a while."

"The whole four hours?"

"More or less, yes."

"Okay. Do you own a vehicle of any description, Professor Abbicott?"

"I have a bicycle," Abbicott volunteered.

"You said you participated in the search for Nicholas. Did you never think to contact the police? Declare him missing?"

"Look – I wasn't his parent, or legal guardian, or anything. I left all that to Terence Palmer. He would have killed me if I'd interfered in any way."

There was some justice in that, Robbie supposed. He asked a few more probing questions, but Abbicott seemed to have an answer for everything. "Thank you, Professor," he said at last.

"Then may I ask you a question of my own?" Robbie nodded for him to continue. "How did Nicholas die?"

"Asphyxiation. Someone suffocated him by pressing his head into some sand for some minutes until he stopped breathing."

Abbicott visibly paled. "I see. Poor Nicholas."

"Not a pleasant way to go," Robbie agreed. He studied Abbicott a moment more. The man looked far from a killer, but there was still something off about him. "Don't leave Oxford without informing us, will you, Professor? You might be of assistance in our inquiries into Nicholas' death."

"Yes, I understand. Good luck, Inspector Lewis. I hope to God you find the man who murdered him."

"I hope so too, Professor." Robbie wondered how many times he'd heard the same sentiment from the man who'd turned out to be the murderer himself.

* * *

Armed with the right name at last, Robbie soon located Nicholas Pelgrin's record in the national database. It held little of interest. Despite the many names he'd adopted over the years, he'd never taken the trouble to change his name by deed poll. He had no criminal record, and hadn't been officially reported missing. 

His next of kin was listed as Richard Pelgrin, his father. A further query yielded the phone number of his architectural firm, though Robbie had to jump through several secretarial hoops to reach the man himself. Richard Pelgrin finally took the phone. He had the brisk, businesslike voice of someone accustomed to wielding authority. "What can I do for you, Inspector?"

Lewis steeled himself and delivered the news, for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

There was a long, pained silence at the other end of the line. Finally Robbie was forced to break it. "I'm very sorry for your loss, sir."

Pelgrin made a funny, choked sob, before drawing a deep breath and resuming, his voice now slightly hoarse: "Where's my son now?"

Robbie made arrangements to have the older Pelgrin drive up from London. He was just putting down the receiver, relieved it was over, when Hathaway walked in, shoulders hunched, looking for all the world like a soldier back from the battlefront.

"All right, lad?" Robbie asked, concerned.

James plonked himself down in his chair, the shell-shocked look still on his face. "Have you ever interviewed a witness in the nude, sir?"

That explained the blush on James' normally pale face. "Can't say that I have. How do you feel?"

"Like I've just escaped from a den of iniquity."

"You were at Palmer's place. Close enough, I'd have thought."

James stiffened a little. "Not my place to judge, sir. Who was that on the phone?"

"Nicholas Pelgrin's father."

" _Nicholas_?" James' gaze travelled to the whiteboard, and noted the third alias. "Nicholas Owen Pelgrin," he repeated to himself, emphasising the middle name. "Why does that sound familiar?"

"So you do know him, then?"

James' forehead creased. "No, not at all. Must be from some story I heard when I was a kid."

"What story?"

"I've forgotten. It isn't important," James said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

It must have been a pretty crap story, if James had forgotten it. He usually had a memory like an elephant.

"So what's his father do?" James asked.

"He's an architect and builder. Pelgrin Properties. Look it up."

Hathaway fired up his computer and did a quick web search. "'An Englishman's home is his castle'," he said, quoting the firm's tagline. "Headquartered in London. Specialising in large houses, custom-built with top-of-the-line security features. He must be making a mint off the paranoid demographic."

"For people with more money than sense," Robbie agreed. "I wonder what drove the rift between him and his son."

"You should ask him. Is he coming?"

"Driving up as we speak."

"How'd he take it?"

"Quietly." Except for that one choked sob, which was going to haunt Robbie for a while.

They began swapping information from the afternoon's investigations, and were soon joined by Innocent, who was now wearing her hair loose – the other teams must have gotten their skates on.

"From zero names to three. You boys have been busy," she said, eyeing the whiteboard. "Any likely suspects?"

They went through them one by one. First up was Terry Palmer. Hathaway explained his relationship to Nicholas, which made Innocent raise an eyebrow. "Any motive for killing the boy?" she asked.

"Well, he has an explosive temper. We have several independent testimonials to that effect," Robbie contributed.

"But his temper tantrums never lasted long," Hathaway objected. "Nicholas has been missing for two months. And by all accounts, he genuinely loved Nicholas like a son."

"Come off it," Robbie said. "He had sexual relations with Nicholas! That's not a father-son relationship."

"Nevertheless, sir, that's what they considered themselves. And it _was_ consensual."

Robbie was aghast. "Doesn't it bother you? The age difference, the power imbalance?"

"No, sir, on the whole, it doesn't. You can't blame Nicholas for wanting a father figure in his life," James argued.

"It's not Nicholas I blame, it's Palmer!"

"Boys," Innocent interceded, and they subsided. "Fascinating as this all is, more practically, does he have an alibi for Nicholas' time of death?"

"He claims he was with his other 'boys', and they back him up on that."

"Which they would anyway. What if one of _them_ did it? You said that Anton Germain was jealous of the special treatment Nicholas got from Palmer."

James shrugged. "I don't know if that's sufficient motive for murder, sir."

"And what about Kyran Tate?"

"Even less of a motive – he was treated better than Anton. And he seemed to like Johnny," Hathaway reported. "But there _is_ one significant black mark against Palmer and his boys."

"What's that?"

"He has a beach house in Dorset." Before Robbie could draw the obvious conclusion, James added, "I've called Dr Hobson and asked her to get Forensics to check the sand grains in Nicholas' nose for a Dorset origin. She'll get back to us with a yes or no when the results come in."

"Right. Who else is on the list?"

Robbie told them about Nicholas' roommate. "He could have a chip on his shoulder about Nicholas having it easy, getting all the money he wants out of Palmer, while Randy has to prostitute himself to pay the bills."

"What's your gut feeling?" Innocent asked.

"Hard to say, ma'am. Randy may have envied Nicholas' access to money, but he wouldn't have wanted Nicholas' lifestyle. Doesn't like to be tied down."

Hathaway made a choked sound that Robbie suspected came from a stifled laugh. Under the glares of two senior officers, he quickly rearranged his face back into impassivity. "Sorry, sir. Go on?"

"They weren't close, but Nicholas seemed like a pleasant enough flatmate – quiet, paid his rent on time. He even did all the cleaning. The flat's now a mess."

"Anyone else?"  


"Palmer did suggest that perhaps someone killed Johnny to spite him," James said. "But by all accounts, that could be practically anyone in the BDSM community. We could follow up, but..."

Innocent shook her head. "Let's focus on our key suspects. See what Dr Hobson has to say first. Ah, that's probably her now," she said as the phone rang. Robbie grabbed it.

"I've got the results from the lab," Laura reported. "James was right. The techs agree there's an eighty percent chance it came from the Sandbanks area of Dorset. If you can get an actual sand sample from a more specific area, they'll be able to give you a more accurate probability of a match. All right?"

Robbie thanked her and relayed the results.

"So, it's Palmer then," Innocent said.

"Or his boys – presumably they'd have had access. Where d'you think you're going, James?" Hathaway was reaching for his jacket.

"Aren't we going to check it out, sir? I've already got Palmer's permission to search the house, and the keycode for the door. If you need to stay here and see to Nicholas' father, I can go myself."

"The house is in Dorset, Hathaway. I do need to make a few phone calls. You can't just go waltzing into another force's jurisdiction," Innocent said pointedly.

"Of course not, ma'am, but surely two hours'll be enough time for you to make those calls."

Innocent gave a huff and Robbie a look that was clearly meant to be significant. Robbie took the hint.

"Hathaway, it'll have gone  eight by the time you get down there."

James' brow furrowed. "And therefore?"

"And _therefore_ , we will go tomorrow morning. Together. The house'll still be standing then. You've had a long day, James. Why don't you get off home, so you're fresh for tomorrow."

Innocent gave Robbie an approving smile, but James still looked confused at being dismissed this early. He'd obviously forgotten how late he'd been up the night before. "What about Nicholas' father?"

"I'll handle him. We'll make an early start for Dorset tomorrow – pick me up at seven?"

"Yes, sir."

Innocent said good night. James returned to his seat.

Robbie shot him a warning glare. "Hathaway..."

"I just need to check a couple more things, sir, then I'll be off," James said hastily.

"All right," Robbie allowed reluctantly. He put his hands behind his neck and leaned his chair backward. Only James' rapid typing interrupted the thoughtful silence.

"You know, there's something odd about this investigation," Robbie mused.

"Sir?"

"Too much testosterone. Every single witness we've talked to has been a man."

"As far as we can tell, Nicholas Pelgrin led a woman-free life." James' eyes flickered over toward him for a moment, as if daring him to make a comparison, but it was too late in the day for baiting James.

"I know. But you know what they say. _Cherchez la femme_."

"'They' being DCI Morse, sir?" Hathaway smirked at him.

"Oi. Not all my French comes from him. But yeah, he said it to me a couple of times," Robbie admitted. "Though he never liked it when it turned out to be true."

"Statistically speaking, about forty percent of the murderers we've caught so far have turned out to be female. I'd be surprised if Morse wasn't often disappointed in womankind."

"Exactly. So, Hathaway, find me a woman."

"Sir?" James gave him a startled look.

"You know what I mean. Connected to the case."

James turned back to his computer and tapped in a few things, then said, "Well, there's Nicholas' mother."

"Yeah. Funny that Richard Pelgrin didn't mention he was bringing her up with him. Divorced?"

"Deceased."

Oh. "Cause of death?"

"Suicide, when Nicholas was...eighteen," James said, pausing ever so slightly to make the calculation. "I'll contact the Metropolitan Police and ask them to pull the file."

DC Hooper chose that moment to poke his head in. "Man to see you by the name of Richard Pelgrin, Inspector."

"Already?" Robbie glanced at his watch. "We'll have to arrest him for breaking the speed limit." He stood up and walked to the door of the office. James powered down his computer.

"I'll walk you out, sir."

The public lobby of the station was still pretty busy at this time in the evening. The desk sergeant pointed out Richard Pelgrin. He was shorter and much stouter than his son had been, with a builder's build. He was as dark in colouring as his son had been light. Robbie supposed Nicholas must have inherited his colouring from his mam. "Mr Pelgrin. I'm Inspector Lewis. And this is Detective Sergeant –" Robbie turned to introduce Hathaway, only to discover that James had somehow slipped away into the night. 

Robbie blinked. In most people, to leave without a good night or a word of condolence to a grieving father would be uncivil behaviour; for James Hathaway, it was downright rude.

"– Hathaway – he had to slip away to follow up on some important leads." Robbie made the hasty excuse.

"In my son's case, you mean?" Pelgrin asked sombrely.

"Yes. We're very sorry for your loss, sir."

"I want to see him."

"Of course. The hospital's just ten minutes away."

* * *

They made it through the grim ritual of identifying the body in one piece, and afterwards Robbie performed the time-honoured duty of a British copper and offered Richard Pelgrin a cup of tea.

They sat in the hard plastic chairs, nursing their cuppas in silence, Robbie exhausted from the day and thinking about how he would be feeling if that was Mark, until Pelgrin finally spoke.

"You're probably wondering why I'm not bursting into tears."

"Everyone handles grief a little differently, I've found," Robbie replied.

"Fact is...Nicholas and I hadn't seen each other for several years, not since he dropped out of Oxford."

"You didn't approve of his lifestyle choices?"

"No, not in the least. I mean, the things he was getting up to..." Pelgrin shook his head, disgust written all over his face. "But I suppose you'd know all about that."

"Some of it, sir."

"My only consolation was that his mother never knew of it. She'd have been heartbroken."

Robbie saw his entrance. "I'm sorry to bring up another subject that must grieve you deeply, but – didn't your wife commit suicide?"

Pelgrin frowned. "You _have_ done your homework."

"Sergeant Hathaway did, actually. Do you know what caused your wife to take her life?"

"It's not a matter I'd like to discuss," Pelgrin said stiffly. "But I can assure you, she knew nothing of it, so it wasn't germane. No, she had been quite depressed for a number of years. And I think that once Nicholas left for Oxford, the house was simply too empty to keep her demons at bay. It was in the middle of Hilary term of Nicholas' first year that she did it. He came back for her funeral, of course. And he had the audacity to use that as an opportunity to tell me that he'd met someone – a _man_ – and was quitting his degree course to go live with him."

"Were you angry with him?"

"Angry? I was furious! But still, he was my son. And I made it very clear – at least I hope it was clear – that if he ever wanted to come home, there'd be a place for him. But now, this..." Pelgrin buried his head in his hands.

Robbie sympathised. It was a terrible feeling, knowing that it was too late to say something that should have been said, that there was a door that would never be stepped through.

"Were you aware of the nature of the relationship between him and Terry Palmer?"

"Yes. I knew. I made it my business to know. But I couldn't talk him out of it." He suddenly looked up. "Wait a minute – it wasn't Palmer who did this, was it?"

"We're still in the early stages of the investigation, sir."

"If I had my way, that deviant would be locked up, so that he won't take advantage of any young men like my son ever again," Pelgrin said fiercely. Then he sagged suddenly in his seat. "I couldn't do anything while Nicholas was alive – it was what he wanted, after all."

"I understand. Listen, finish your cuppa, and we'll find you a place to stay."

Pelgrin got to his feet. "That's all right. I can handle myself. I have colleagues in the city who'll be willing to put me up."

"Okay. I'll update you as the investigation progresses. And once again, I'm very sorry."

Pelgrin left, leaving half a cupful of tea standing on the table. Robbie puffed out a sigh and headed for Laura's office. She was still there, head bent industriously over a report. She looked up with a smile when he came in.

"How're you feeling now, Laura?"

"Absolutely fine, thanks. I stopped by earlier to drop off the results of the PM but you weren't there."

"Anything new?"

"No change in the results, but I did manage to isolate a scrap of DNA from the bowels of your corpse. It was severely degraded, but it definitely wasn't a familial match."

"He didn't have any family anyway – no brothers or sisters. Mam dead. His dad's the only one left." Robbie sighed, and changed the subject. "Game for tea at the Trout?"

"Breakfast _and_ dinner? You're spoiling me, Robbie."

"I never said I was paying for this one," Robbie protested.

"No, my shout this time," Laura allowed. She crinkled her forehead. "What happened to your regular Friday night date with Hathaway?"

Robbie let the word slide. "I sent him home. Innocent's orders."

Laura paused in the middle of grabbing her purse. "Sent home without supper? What's the naughty boy gone and done now?"

"Wrote part of his report in Latin. Apparently that's a symptom of possible mental exhaustion."

"I'd say that's a symptom of possible mental many other things, but I won't spell out what they are," Laura said dryly. "Go on and get a round in. Order me some fish and chips. I'll join you there."

They resumed their conversation at the Trout, once they'd got their food and beers.

"So James left without saying good night. Not exactly a criminal offence, Robbie."

"Well, yeah, but..." Robbie hesitated, then decided to tell her. "He just felt...out of sorts."

"He _was_ pretty exhausted today," Laura reminded him. "Unless your intuition's telling you something different?"

"There's...something about this case. It's not personal, not like Crevecoeur, or Will McEwan. I'm convinced he doesn't know any of the suspects, or the victim. But there's just...something, you know?" Tiny things. The furrowing of a brow. The tautening of James' voice. You had to really know him to see them, but they'd been there, all the same.

"Could it be the parallels between him and the victim?"

"Parallels?"

"They look similar...no, that's not fair. James is dishier." Laura's eyes twinkled at the look of exasperation in Robbie's. "But they're the same type, don't you think? Similar build, almost identical colouring."

"Okay. So they're 'of a type'. So what?"

"I don't know, Robbie. I'm not the detective. _You_ have the distinct advantage of being able to ask your subjects questions and have them spill their secrets. I don't."

"Are you suggesting I should _talk_ to Hathaway?"

Laura rolled her eyes heavenwards. "You boys are going to be death of me, one day."

"If it ever comes to that, I'll be sure to arrest the bastards."

Laura wasn't amused. "Talk to him, Robbie."

"That hasn't always worked out so well in the past, mind."

For a moment, Laura looked just as formidable as Innocent in full swing. "Lewis, _talk to him_."

"Yes, ma'am."


	3. Chapter 3

When Robbie opened his door the next morning, he found Hathaway standing on his step desperately trying to cram in his nicotine fix before their drive to Dorset. James didn't look all that much better for the night's rest, and Robbie reluctantly decided that he'd have to take Laura's advice. He didn't like to have to invade the lad's privacy – and James was nothing if not private – but he'd made the mistake of leaving Hathaway to stew in his own misery twice before, and he wasn't about to let it happen a third time.

"Come on in. Let's get some coffee into you before we get going." 

They moved around the kitchenette in their usual dance, getting the breakfast things together. Robbie waited till James had finished his toast and was sipping his coffee before he began. "Listen, James." 

Hathaway stiffened automatically. "Sir?" 

"Are you all right?" 

James' knuckles went white around the handle of the coffee cup. "Yes, sir, of course I'm all right." 

"And is that special Hathaway code for 'not all right at all'?" 

Hathaway rolled his eyes. "No, sir, it's English, plain and simple." 

Robbie remained silent, staring implacably across the counter at Hathaway, until the younger man tore his gaze away with a sigh. "You're not going to give me a choice on this, are you, sir?" 

"'Course I will. What'll it be, lad, the comfy chair or the rack?"

Hathaway's face assumed a look of mock horror. "Oh, no, sir, not the comfy chair!" But he folded himself into it anyway, clasping his hands together and resting his temple on the fingertips. After a pause, he looked up. "Aren't you going to start inquisitioning me, sir?" 

Robbie snorted. "Glad you had a proper classical education at the very least." That got a half-smile out of James. "So," he said, and it disappeared in a trice. "What's up?" 

James' eyes took on a faraway look. "During the Crevecoeur case, back when we still thought Briony's dad had killed herself, I talked to her alone, on the morning of Scarlett's engagement party. I told her that I couldn't imagine half of what she was going through," James said, emphasis on _half_.

"Because you could imagine the other half?" Robbie asked, making the links. James was going to make him work for the revelation. He didn't give up his secrets  so  easily. "Would that half be Augustus Mortmaigne?" Robbie hazarded cautiously. 

He'd never figured out whether James had been abused by Mortmaigne the way little Briony and some of the other kids off the  Crevecoeur  estate had. James hadn't been in any of the photographs at the summer house of horror, and he hadn't come forward while DI Laxton was building her case against Mortmaigne. But Robbie had never been able to shake the feeling that something terrible had happened to James as a boy at Crevecoeur. 

"I wasn't thinking about Mortmaigne," James said tightly. "Fine. I couldn't imagine a third of what Briony was going through." He took a deep breath, then confessed. "I've never had a parent walk out on me." 

Robbie's brain performed the mental subtraction and his stomach lurched at the result. James hadn't been kidding when he said he'd had an unhappy childhood. "Mum or dad?" he asked quietly. 

"My mother." James looked up at him now, face blank to hide the roiling emotions inside, the same way he'd looked during the Zelinsky case. "I was the one who found her. She'd used a shotgun." 

"Mrs Temple," Robbie said, realising, remembering that dreadful moment when the college scout had put a rifle to her head, and James had cried "no" and hurled himself towards her.  _That_ was why James'd been so affected by her attempted suicide. Another piece of the James Hathaway-edition jigsaw puzzle in place. 

"Yeah. Only I was in time, that time." James took a deep, shuddering breath. 

He should have said something sooner, found out about this earlier. "Robbie'll sort him out," Laura had said back then, and what had Robbie gone and done instead? Made some silly crack about missing her concert, saying something, anything, that could get out of having to actually talk. And James had been equally willing to let him, to get out of having to remember. 

Why had she done it? Robbie had pried this far, pried James open this far...but James forestalled the question before he could even ask. 

"I was thirteen years old, sir," he said, quietly, but insistently. 

Christ.  _Thirteen?_ Robbie stared at James, who sat scrunched up in the chair, arms wound around himself like some sort of protective cocoon, his jaw set, the corners of his lips curled downwards. God knew James didn't wear his emotions on his sleeves, but he'd spent enough time around James to know how to read him, and he saw grief, loneliness, and – self-loathing? 

It was natural, of course, for survivors of suicide to blame themselves for not having done enough to prevent it. Robbie had seen it many times. And for James, it was doubly normal, what with the lad's penchant for self-flagellation even when he'd done nothing wrong. "James, lad, it wasn't your fau-" 

Hathaway bolted to his feet, stepping swiftly out of range of Robbie's outstretched hand. "Sir. We have to get going." He glanced at his watch, and when he looked up again, his face was rearranged once more in its usual bland, impassive mask. "Can't keep DCI Larimer waiting." 

Robbie read his cue. Inquisition over. And what had he accomplished? Dragged the lad's most painful memory out of him without offering any comfort or solutions in return. It barely intersected at all with the case. It was just a parallel, as Laura had said.

He really wasn't good at this whole "talking" business, Robbie decided with a sigh. He wasn't looking forward to two hours of tense, warring silences in the car. 

They put the breakfast things away quickly, got into James' Vectra and started off. James offered nothing in the way of conversation, and Robbie didn't press him. He risked a sneak peek instead. Hathaway's face was pinched and his eyes glued to the road, and he was driving a tad faster than he normally did. 

"Would you like me to put the radio on, sir?" James asked abruptly. 

"Your car, your music, James." 

Hathaway immediately put on something very worldly and too loud to talk through, and they listened to that all the way to Dorset. 

* * *

James' tension gradually dissipated as he drove. He never could stay angry at Lewis for long. Not when it was Lewis' compassion – the very thing that made him a good detective, and a good partner – that had caused him to pry. 

And he could see why Lewis would be concerned. He'd not made an especially good showing yesterday, too tired to be on his guard with every word and expression. He'd slipped up a few times. Of course, Lewis had noticed every time.

There was only one thing for it. Solve this case quickly, so that Robbie could go to Manchester and spend a well-deserved Father's Day with his daughter and grandson. Hopefully he'd have forgotten all about his concern for James by the time he got back, and everything would go back to normal.

Armed with this resolution, James began to review the details of the case in his mind, beginning with the victim's name. Nicholas Owen Pelgrin. It still rang familiar. It felt almost ancient. But he couldn't place it.

It niggled at him. It wasn't often that his memory failed him like this. He could google it, of course, but not here, while he was driving. Still, that didn't preclude him from searching the vaults of his own memory.

He let his eyes focus on the road, tuned out the harmonies of Tuvan throat-singing, and let his mind drift.

The colleges and chapels of Oxford and Cambridge, he bypassed. This memory was older than that. Instead, he travelled to the great memory spaces of his childhood. Boarding school. No, older. The great estates of Oxfordshire, the ones he'd biked to with Paul and some of the other estate children. The churches and cathedrals they'd visited under the watchful eye of Father Wendell, the Jesuit priest in residence at the Folly when he'd been a child. It had been Father Wendell who'd taught him how to shape his eclectic memory into something more organised, into a memory palace. Who'd encouraged him to be a priest in his turn.

He walked the corridors and aisles in his mind, each vase and painting and tomb triggering a corresponding memory – a snippet of poetry, a Bible verse, the odd chemistry fact. He rarely visited these old memory palaces anymore, yet each memory was just as vivid as the day he'd squirrelled it away. The poetry was mostly exhortatory rubbish that made him shudder at his juvenile taste s , but there was still a certain satisfaction to being able to perfectly recall every line and cadence.

Except that there wasn't a single mention of Nicholas Owen.

Searching through a memory palace was like playing a game of hide and seek. Hot when you were near your target, cold when you were far away. And here, the trail was cold.

_Hide and seek._ Suddenly James knew exactly where he needed to look. He wasn't sure how Nicholas Owen was connected to a children's game, but there was definitely a connection, even if it was a tenuous one.

Which meant he'd have to go back  _there_. Maybe he should just google it after all. 

_Coward_ , he chided himself. He'd already survived it in real life – albeit with a bullet in his arm for his trouble. Surely a trip through the Crevecoeur Hall of his mind couldn't do much worse.

James hesitated at the bottom of the great flight of steps that led to the grand entrance. There was no Scarlett this time to ease his nerves, to remind him that there had once been something good and pure that lived in this accursed building. Where was Scarlett now? Fled to France, he'd read in some tabloid, where the shame of her father's conviction wouldn't reach her.

He wandered through the halls, willing the portraits and vases to whisper him a clue. But the ancient marquesses and their ladies stared down as forbiddingly as they had when he was a child, and remained silent. He checked the usual hiding spots for clues. Scarlett had always favoured the window ledge in her mother's boudoir, behind the thick yellow curtains, because the others were usually too timid to trespass in there. Paul had liked hiding in Augustus' study. And James – well, James had always been inclined towards the library, even though the others had always laughed whenever they  caught him  reading in there, since there weren't many good hiding spots, and he'd always been one of the first to be found.

He walked through the familiar shelves, and came to the great fireplace at the heart of the library. Stone-cold, of course – there hadn't been a fire lit in here since the conflagration of 1910, which had destroyed some of rarest and most precious books in the Mortmaigne collection. By the orders of the tenth Marquess, not the slightest hint of flame had been allowed in the library ever since. But somehow, James knew he was getting warmer.

He ducked under the mantelpiece and felt around. There – a stone brick, recessed into the chimney, just deep enough to make a foothold. And another above it. Then a third.  _Then a cantilevered stone leading to a passageway leading away from the chimney to the tiniest of rooms, just big enough for two, to hide them safe from their persecutors._ They'll never find me here, _he'd thought, gleeful until he heard a gravelly voice from below him:_

_ "Well, well, if it isn't James the Just. Aren't you a clever boy?" _

_ And  then  he'd been falling, falling, into a pair of arms,  strong as vises, and he'd opened his mouth to yell... _

"James!" Lewis' voice yanked him out of the Crevecoeur Hall in his mind, back to the safety of the present. From the look on his governor's face, it looked like it wasn't the first time Lewis had called his name.

"Sir?" he croaked out. His vocal cords felt thin and worn, as if he'd been screaming for hours. 

"Didn't you hear me? You just missed the turn-off." 

James swore inwardly. "Sorry, sir. I'll take the next one." 

Lewis didn't ask this time whether or not he was all right, but if he hadn't had enough evidence before, he'd know now.  He confirmed it by laying his hand briefly on James', long enough to be a comfort, short enough so it couldn't be construed as inappropriate. James took a deep,  fortifying  breath and relaxed the death grip his hands had on the steering wheel. He dismissed Crevecoeur to the darkest recesses of his memory and focused on finding an alternate route to Palmer's beach house. 

Soon they found themselves bumping over a driveway made of gravel up to the building looming before them. He put the car into park and they sat staring at the edifice for a moment. 

"That's never a house," Lewis said.

"More like a fortress," James agreed, relieved to find that his voice was back in working condition. "Palmer's house in Oxford was impressive, but it wasn't  _this_ impressive." 

"He must have dropped a pretty penny building this place." 

A SOCO van was already present in the gravel driveway, its occupants suiting up. Next to it was another Vectra, two plainclothes  detectives standing by it. "That must be DCI Larimer. Did you know she would be a she, sir?" 

DCI Larimer was even more impressive than the house, judging by the soft whistle Lewis let out. 

"Looks like you got your wish, sir. You did want a woman to be involved in the case." 

His lack of enthusiasm must have showed, because Lewis was looking at him as if he had a couple of parts missing in a strategic location. 

"Hathaway, look at her and tell me she's not stunningly beautiful." 

James looked. "She's not stunningly beautiful." 

"You're blind, man!" 

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir, I thought you were giving me an order," James said blandly. 

Lewis gave him a look of mock disgust, and got out of the car. 

You could tell that Larimer was of a class with Jean Innocent. She strode towards them and addressed them in a booming voice that wouldn't have been out of place at the Quorn. "It's Lewis and Hathaway, isn't it? How was the drive down?" 

"Very good, ma'am." 

"Pish-tosh, it's Maddie to you, Robbie. And this is my sergeant, Wesley Chang." James exchanged a friendly nod with his fellow DS. Chang was younger even than James, and, judging from the starstruck look he was giving his superior officer, still new to his assignment. He looked as if he still couldn't believe his luck. James knew the feeling. 

"So, I hear from Jean that you're trying to fob one of your murders off on us!" Larimer said. 

"Not by choice, ma- Maddie, I can assure you." 

"I quite agree. Always more annoying when another force has to get involved, isn't it? Still, gives pen-pushers like Jean something to do." James hastily stifled a grin. He caught Lewis' eye, and his spirits lifted. Lewis wasn't going to treat him any differently for the secret he'd been forced to reveal earlier. If there was one thing his early experiences had taught him to appreciate, it was stability. And right now the greatest source of that in James' life was Lewis. 

"I notice there were CCTV cameras set up along the driveway," he noted as they donned their scene suits.

"Way ahead of you, Hathaway. We've already called the security company, they're sending the tapes over to HQ." 

Better and better. Lewis might be reluctant to hand over cases, but it looked like this one would be in good hands.

"So, shall we go in? It looks like searching this place is going to take all day," Larimer boomed. 

"There's no keyhole," Chang spoke up for the first time, "only a keypad." 

"I've got the code," James volunteered, and hastened to key it in. 

The house was garishly opulent, just like Palmer's Oxfordshire home had been. Faux Roman sculptures flaunted themselves in porticoes. The house was obviously meant for entertaining, in lavish style. 

While SOCO poked through the house, Lewis filled Larimer in on the case so far. She asked intelligent questions, and immediately pounced on the most obvious suspect. "I'd like to get this Palmer fellow in for questioning." 

"We'll send him down," Lewis promised. 

The first sign of Palmer's alternative lifestyle came when they entered the living room. The portico in the living room was empty, and it was obvious from the chains hanging from the ceiling that it was designed to accommodate a very different type of statue. Lewis turned to  him with an inquiring tilt of the eyebrows, and James nodded back, face flushing at the recollection. "Pretty similar set-up in Palmer's Oxfordshire house, sir. Only that one was occupied." 

"I can see now why you came back with a permanent blush."

"Maddie," Chang called. "Look over here." They crossed over to where he was standing. There was a series of photographs of Palmer and his boys.  "Didn't you say there were three of them?"

Nicholas' photograph was indeed  conspicuous by its absence, and James confirmed that to the two Dorset detectives.

"Maybe the killer was here, then, and stole  the photograph," Larimer hypothesised. "Well-spotted, Wesley."

"You could take a leaf from Chang, you know, James?" Lewis said in a low voice, when the other pair had wandered off to examine some thing else. 

"Are you saying I should've spotted that earlier?" James furrowed his brow. 

"No, I'm saying that you should call me 'Robbie' from time to time." He'd been trying to get James to call him 'Robbie' while they were off-duty, but James had resisted. 

"I still prefer 'sir', sir." 

"Ah, you're hopeless," Lewis said. 

They descended into the dungeon, where the SOCOs began testing the various restraints and implements of BDSM.

"We'll have to take them back to the lab to be surer, ma'am," a tech reported to Larimer. "But it does look like it's the right blood group."

"Evidence. Terrific," Larimer said.

"Actually not, ma'am." James frowned. It didn't make sense. "One of Palmer's submissives told me that they disinfected the...equipment after each session. Palmer was obsessed with keeping things clean. If he was the murderer, wouldn't he take even more care to remove all the evidence?"

"Perhaps he panicked," Chang suggested with a shrug. "Or perhaps he simply forgot because usually one of his submissives did it for him."

"That's certainly a possibility," Lewis agreed, but he nodded at James anyway, telling him that he'd made a good point.

Apart from the blood, the SOCOs turned up nothing more of interest in the house, so they moved to their next port of call – the beach. It was accessible only by a set of rocky steps carved into the cliff.  Set against it was a small wooden structure, some kind of changing room, Chang reported. Otherwise the beach was empty, save for centuries of accumulated sea debris below the waterline.

Lewis stepped carefully over a mass of seaweed and wrinkled his nose. " Well, it may be a grand house, but this is definitely not your first choice in shorefront."

"Depends on your point of view, sir. To a Greenlander, this would be the perfect beach," James said. 

Lewis gave James one of his what-on-earth-are-you-banging-on-about looks, so James continued to expound. "Greenland has close to no natural resources, so its people depended on driftwood and dead sea mammals washing up on their shores, to build and heat their homes, as well as supplement their diet. They even had a charming marriage custom where they'd heave a marked piece of wood into the sea and build their matrimonial home where it washed up. It was a pretty good bet that that was where the prevailing currents would wash up more stuff in the future."

Larimer and Chang were looking at them like they'd grown four heads between them. "Why're we talking about Greenland marriage customs?" Larimer asked. 

"Sorry, irrelevant tangent," James said. 

"Maybe not irrelevant – maybe that's why Palmer couldn't just dump the body in the sea, because it would just wash back up on his own beach again! No, that doesn't explain why he brought it all the way back to Oxfordshire. Dammit." Lewis scratched his head. 

James felt a wave of warmth wash over him. Trust Lewis to actually listen to his nonsense and actually take it seriously. Not many DIs would do that. Not matter-of-fact Larimer. And not DI Knox either. Knox would have called him an over-educated little snit. 

"Still, take a sample of that sand, James. Have to get it back to the lab for a comparison with the stuff found down Nicholas' nose."

James obediently stooped to collect some.

"This is a dead end," Larimer said. "Let's go back up.  It's too noisy to think, what with the crashing of the waves." 

They conferred on their progress in the driveway. 

"Not terribly much to show for a morning's work," Larimer summed it up. "The blood on the whip is circumstantial at best. Any traces of him SOCO do find, might have been left here on a previous visit. Unless that sand sample proves definitive, we haven't found a thing to place Nicholas Pelgrin at the scene. We'd best get on to that CCTV footage and see if that gives us anything more solid. And if we do find that Pelgrin was murdered here, we'll have to transfer the case, of course."

To James' relief, Lewis nodded. "Yeah. We'll...keep in touch." 

"Be sure you do!" Larimer wrung their hands once more and strode off. Chang shook hands more sedately and followed her. He wasn't the only one. Lewis' eyes followed her progress all the way to the Vectra.

James cleared his throat. "You know, sir, I could always handle the transfer of the case." He began counting down the hours. Two to get back to Oxford. Another couple of hours for the technicians to analyse the sand,  if he called in a few favours .  And then  Lewis could be off, in good time for his Father's Day celebration with Lyn. 

Lewis cast a suspicious look in his direction. "You're volunteering?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Want the chance to get to know DCI Larimer a bit better, eh?" 

"Not at all, sir. In fact, I give you my blessing." 

"Your what?" 

"Well, she's a better choice than some of your other targets. At least it's pretty certain you won't have to arrest her."

Lewis was saved from having to reply by the ringing of his mobile.

"Lewis," his boss answered crisply. "Yes, ma'am. What? _No_ ," Lewis ended with a groan. 

James' heart fell. He knew that 'no'. It meant that the case wasn't over, that it had just become infinitely more complicated, and that Lewis wasn't going to be getting off to Manchester anytime soon. 

"All right, we'll come back now." Lewis ended the call and looked at James, exasperation written all over his face. "Randy Daniels has just been found murdered at the Holborne Hotel." 

* * *

Robbie quickly explained the new development to  Larimer and Chang and  they  made their way back up to Oxford, putting the sirens on at key intervals for a quicker, smoother ride. The hotel was teeming with hollow-eyed, half-dressed convention-goers interspersed with the odd horrified-looking PC. 

"At last," Innocent exclaimed when they made their way to the murder scene – the storeroom where they'd broken the news to Palmer. "I reckoned you two ought to take this on, since you interviewed the victim yesterday, Lewis." 

"It has to be connected, ma'am, yes," Robbie agreed, glancing around the storeroom, much more cluttered now with the equipment from the booths, which had all been stored away while the exhibition hall was transformed into a gigantic party room. "Where's the body?" 

"Over here, Robbie!" Laura's voice called from behind a massive pile of boxes. 

"We've kept it here so you'd have a chance to examine it," Innocent explained. "When you're done, there's several hundred witness statements waiting for you." 

"Yes, ma'am. C'mon," Robbie said to Hathaway. They stepped gingerly through the labyrinth and located Randy's body, which hung upside-down by the ankles from a giant X-shaped cross. 

James took one look and said abruptly, "I'll go read those witness statements, shall I?" 

Laura's eyebrows went up at James' hasty retreat. "It's not like Hathaway to shy away from a corpse." 

"Yeah, well, he's not exactly himself these days, is he?" Robbie said. To tell the truth, he was a little perturbed himself. It was always harder when you'd known a murder victim while they were alive. The contrast between the perky young man he'd met the day before and the purpling in his face from the accumulating blood was hard to take. He had to look away himself, after a moment. 

"Did you have your talk with Hathaway?" Laura pressed. 

"Yeah, I talked to him," Robbie said reluctantly. 

"And did it help?" 

"Some, but..." 

"But what, Robbie?" 

"Even his secrets have secrets, you know?" Robbie sighed and changed the subject. "So. Randy Daniels." 

Laura handed him a flesh-coloured piece of paper before he could even ask the question. It was one of those safety pamphlets from yesterday. "Rules on how to safely tie someone upside-down on a St Andrew's cross," Laura explained, unnecessarily. "The killer systematically broke every single one of those rules. Randy Daniels died of a broken neck." 

Robbie frowned. "So this was, what, a big up-yours to the BDSM community?" 

"I suppose that's one way of interpreting it. Maybe the killer was just looking for a creative murder method and decided this would be deliciously ironic," Laura suggested. 

"Who discovered the body?" 

Laura glanced down at her scribbles. "An exhibitionist – sorry, an exhibit _or_ – who came into the storeroom to retrieve some of his wares to show a prospective client. A...Leon Williams." 

Robbie gave an inward groan. Of course, it  would  have to be one of the few people here who might recognise him. Hopefully Leon was as bad with faces as Randy Daniels had been with names...

"Oh. Hello again. Robbie Lewis, wasn't it?" Leon asked as soon as he saw Robbie.

Robbie manfully ignored Laura's wide-eyed look. "Tell me what happened, Leon," he said wearily.

"Er, well, I got to talking with a prospective client during the party, and he said he wanted to see what a branding iron looked like. So I came into the storeroom to fetch a sample." 

"What time was this?" 

"Must have been...six a.m.? I headed to my little pile and picked one up, and –" 

"Hold on, where was this 'little pile'?" Robbie interrupted.

Leon pointed to the other side of the tower of boxes, where his line of sight to the body would have been blocked.

"So why come this way?"

"I heard a noise. I thought. I can't be sure. But once I came round and saw the body...I dropped the branding iron and ran for help."

"Where were you, roughly?"

Leon took two steps away. "About here, I think."

There was no branding iron in sight. "Did someone find it, Doctor?"

Laura scrunched up her face, trying to recall. "Don't think so. I'm pretty sure I would have remembered."

They poked around for a bit, trying to see if it could have rolled under a neighbouring pile of junk, before declaring defeat.

"I say, you don't think...the murderer was still _here_ , was he? That he took my branding iron and left while I went to fetch help?" Leon looked aghast.

"How long was it before you came back?" Robbie asked.

"Five – no, seven minutes, perhaps? It wasn't easy to find the organisers in the crowd."

"Plenty of time to make a getaway," Laura observed.

"Leon, do you think you can work out which one of your branding irons was the one that disappeared?"

"I have a full inventory, so yes, of course," Leon said. He trotted off obligingly.

Laura turned to Robbie with a wicked grin. "Is it just me, Robbie, or do you seem to be quite well-known around here? Something I should know about you and Hathaway?"

Robbie knew better than to lie to Laura. "We were here yesterday as part of the investigation. It was purely procedural," he added defensively. 

"I'll have to remember that, the next time you claim to be following procedure." 

Leon returned, a flummoxed look on his face. "You'll never guess," he began.

Actually, Robbie could. "The one with the palm tree?"

Leon nodded. "Terry Palmer's going to be furious."

"Is he here?"

"Yes, sir, with his full retinue," Hathaway interposed, ducking under the tape cordoning off the storeroom to join them. "I've asked the PCs to start pinpointing their movements last night. Hooper's rounding them up."

Leon began to look nervous again. "In that case, may I?" He pointed towards the door.

"'Course. Give any of the constables your formal statement, yeah?"

No sooner had Leon scuttled away than Palmer arrived, full of righteous indignation. "What's the meaning of this? Why am I being singled out?" 

"Because you knew the victim, Mr Palmer. Randy Daniels. He was Nic- Johnny's flatmate." 

"Yeah, I knew Randy.  _Everyone_ knows Randy. He gets around. Don't you know what he did for a living?" 

"Yes, I do know. But it's more than likely his death was connected to Johnny's. Two flatmates, killed a day apart? And you knew both of them." 

"I've been with my boys all night! Ask them!" 

"But they would lie for you if you asked, wouldn't they?" 

"I didn't ask them to lie for me!" Palmer thundered. 

"Then tell me this, Mr Palmer. You professed to love Johnny like a son. Yet here you are, partying, less than twenty-four hours after discovering that he's dead. Is that normal behaviour?" 

Palmer's two submissives had kept quiet until now, but now one of them exploded. Based on Hathaway's description, this must be the talkative one, Anton Germain. "Look here, you can't blame Master for that. He didn't want to come in the first place.  _I'm_ the one who talked him into coming. I thought it would cheer him up. Cheer us all up, instead of moping about the house. Be with other people. Be with people  _like_ Johnny."

Robbie exchanged glances with Hathaway, who shrugged and took over.

"Does anyone of you happen to have a branding iron on you?"

"No, we're just happy to see you," Anton said sarcastically. "Come on, James, you know we're innocent!"

"I  _don't_ know that," Hathaway retorted hotly, "especially since we have good reason to believe that Johnny was murdered on the beach, in Dorset, outside the house that you, Mr Palmer, built for him."

For the first time, Palmer seemed genuinely stunned. " _My_ house? You mean...Johnny was there all the time?" 

"At the very least, he appears to have died there," Robbie said. 

"But we searched it! We went down to see if he was there for whatever reason, and he wasn't. We looked in every nook and cranny. And we looked at the CCTV! He didn't even set foot there." 

"Then perhaps he was moved there later. In any case, the Dorset police would very much like to have you there to assist with their inquiries."

"Master didn't do a thing! Look, if you have to arrest someone –" Anton hesitated for a moment, then took the plunge. "Arrest me. I did it.  _I_ killed Johnny."

* * *

"So. Do you believe him?" Innocent asked as they exited their respective vehicles at the station.

"Not for one second," Robbie replied. "He was just trying to protect Terry Palmer – God only knows why."

"Which is why he was rather cross when he found out we were sending all three of them to Dorset for interrogation regardless," Hathaway put in.

Innocent shrugged. "Pity. Well, I'll have to call Maddie and give her an update. Lewis, with me."

"Ma'am." Robbie turned to James before following Innocent to her office. "Look up Randy Daniels' next of kin, will you? And start going through those witness statements with a fine-toothed comb, to see if anyone observed Palmer's movements, and those of his...you know." They had to find a better word for Kyran and Anton – Robbie still blushed whenever he had to say the word 'submissive'.

"I already had a preliminary look, sir, and it didn't look promising. But I'll go through them again," James promised. 

When Robbie got to Innocent's office, she'd just made the connection to Larimer. She activated the speaker phone function when he came in.

"Jean!" Maddie's voice boomed through the office, and Innocent hurriedly decreased the volume. "How's life behind the desk?"

"Hectic, when I have to coordinate between people like you and Lewis," Innocent complained, but she was smiling. "He's here with me."

"Hullo, Robbie. We've pulled the CCTV tapes and gone through them." Maddie got straight to business.

"Quick work," Robbie commented, impressed.

"Not really, they're set to only record when they detect movement, so there was less than an hour of recent footage to go through. But here's the kicker:  no Nicholas Pelgrin."

Robbie and Innocent exchanged perplexed glances. "What? How? He  _had_ to be there! The sand..."

"Could have come from any neighbouring beach, Robbie," Innocent reminded him, her voice grim.

"That's what it looks like. Between his arrival at the house and ours, the only people to have gone inside are Terry Palmer and his boys. They're recorded coming and going, two days after the date Nicholas apparently went missing." 

"Is there any way the cameras could have failed to record the scene? Power outage, say?" Robbie asked.

"Wesley talked to the power authorities. There's no record of an outage on this street. And the security company people say the only way to turn the cameras on and off individually, is from the inside, and would have taken considerable technical expertise that Palmer is, frankly, unlikely to have." 

"Could anyone have gone in or out at night, or during a storm? Perhaps the cameras are less sensitive then?" Innocent suggested.

"I don't know. It's pretty sophisticated equipment. We're looking into whether there are alternative ways of accessing Palmer's beach, and checking up on the neighbours , to see if one of them had something to do with it," Maddie replied, the frustration palpable in her voice. "What about you? Have you got any news for me?"

They told her all they knew about the death of Randy Daniels, and also about Anton Germain's "confession". She seemed a lot more inclined to take Anton at his word than they were, but accepted that Anton might have done it out of a misguided sense of loyalty. 

"They're on their way to you in separate cars right now, since I felt there was more evidence linking them to Nicholas Pelgrin's murder than Randy Daniels'. Or so it seemed this morning," Innocent concluded. "We'll ask for them back if we need to interview them here."

"Then I'll be sure to send a receipt," Maddie said, and rang off.

Robbie and Innocent looked at each other. "Well, that leaves things murkier than ever, on the Nicholas Pelgrin end at least," Innocent sighed. "Any thoughts regarding the murder of Randy Daniels?" 

"Thoughts, yes; actual leads, no. There were hundreds of people at the Holborne Hotel, any one of them could've slipped into the storeroom and done the deed. James is going through the witness statements again, to see if anyone observed Palmer or one of his boys acting suspiciously, or saw anyone else entering the storeroom. But he wasn't hopeful."

"Must have taken balls of steel to commit a murder with hundreds of people on the other side of an unlocked door," Innocent said, shaking her head. "We're dealing with a very dangerous murderer, Lewis."

"Yes, ma'am, I'm well aware of that."

"Ah well. Hopefully cracking Nicholas' case will lead to a break in Randy's, or vice versa." 

"I have every confidence in DCI Larimer, ma'am."

Innocent smiled. "Oh, you've formed a good opinion of her, did you? We were at Hendon together. She's a good friend. Excellent copper. What did you think of her and her sergeant?" 

"About the two of them, ma'am? Well, Chang did seem a bit googly-eyed around her." 

"And you didn't notice her being all googly-eyed around him?" 

"I...didn't think she was capable of going googly-eyed, ma'am." 

Innocent smiled at the stunned look on his face. "That's Maddie all over. You wouldn't know it to look at her, but she's soft-hearted as they come." 

"And that's all right with you, ma'am? Superior officer and subordinate, in a romantic relationship?" That sort of thing would have resulted in a transfer or two, when Robbie'd started out.  Or worse.

"The question is whether it's all right with  _her_ Chief Superintendent, but apparently it is. Maddie's quite candid about it, with him at least, and he trusts them to maintain a clear distance between their personal and professional lives." 

"And no worries about shagging his way to the top, if you'll pardon the expression, ma'am?" 

"From what I understand, their DCS takes especial care to vet Chang's performance reviews, takes into account the feedback of other officers." Seeing his look of disbelief, Innocent continued, "You see, Lewis, the very best partnerships are very much like marriages – you of all people should know that. Whether there's an additional layer of romance or not, there's always the potential for a personal disagreement to make it turn ugly, or for the superior officer to give an overly favourable performance review to the subordinate. It all boils down to good, careful personnel management, and whether everyone involved wants to make it work." 

"I see, ma'am." Robbie's head was reeling slightly. 

"Besides...do you remember a Sergeant Ben Culicover, Lewis, who was killed in action about seven years ago, in Cornwall?" 

"Yes, ma'am." That had been a bad business – a drugs bust that had gone horribly wrong. 

"Sergeant Culicover and Maddie were husband and wife." 

A knot formed in Robbie's stomach. "Christ."

"We don't get many chances of happiness in life, Robbie. And it would take a far stronger man than Maddie's DCS to come between her and her chance. Well, enough chit-chatting. Back to work, and mind you bring me some  _concrete_ evidence this time.  How's your James today, by the way?" 

Robbie fairly choked on the personal possessive pronoun. "He...seems all right, ma'am. He wasn't up till two am last night, anyway." 

She smiled warmly at him. "Excellent work, Robbie. Keep it up."


	4. Chapter 4

Hathaway looked up the moment Robbie entered the bullpen.

"Something wrong, sir?" he asked, his gaze searching Robbie's face alertly.

Funny how the brain worked, wasn't it? It was as if Robbie had locked a part of himself behind bars and put up a no-trespassing sign – the part that thought illicit thoughts like _Laura's right, James_ is _dishy_ and _Wonder what it would be like to kiss my sergeant._ And now a chance remark – by the Chief Super, of all people – had unlocked the floodgates and allowed those thoughts to come spilling out.

And, apparently, plaster themselves all over his face. Which was dangerous with James – James had always been able to read him, hadn't he? He'd always been attentive and kind. Robbie had so far chalked it up to a good working partnership, but what if it was something more? He liked to think he'd had a good working relationship with Morse, but when had he ever studied his governor the way James was studying him now? When had they ever shared the silent telegraphic messages that had become his and James' standard mode of communication?

What message was he sending now, staring slack-jawed at his sergeant while contemplating the previously unthinkable? He had to pull himself together. He might be reading this all wrong, jumping to conclusions based on an off-the-cuff comment by a DCS as exhausted from the week as the rest of them. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin their relationship on the basis of a misunderstanding. This required further investigation, and he couldn't do it while there was a double murderer out on the loose.

"Nothing," Robbie replied at last, "except that our best lead just evaporated into thin air. Turns out the CCTV has no record of Nicholas entering the house after his disappearance."

Hathaway's eyebrows arched upwards. "No Nicholas," he repeated in disbelief.

"Maddie's going to check on the neighbours. We're to concentrate on Randy's murder. Anything new?"

James turned and signalled to Julie, who came over, carrying a laptop. "I ran a check on Randy's mobile phone records, sir. He made a call to the station at half past ten last night."

"To the station? But I gave him my mobile number," Robbie objected. "What did he want?"

"According to the Sergeant Greaves, he had something he wanted to tell you, but didn't leave any contact details. I pulled the recording off the main switchboard." Julie tapped "play", and they crowded around to hear.

 _"Oxfordshire Police, how may I help you?"_ came the efficient tones of the duty sergeant.

_"Hi, I'm trying to reach the inspector in charge of the Johnny Palmer case. I think I may have some information for him."_

Robbie shook his head. Randy may have been bad at names, but surely he would have been able to call a number on a card.

_"Johnny Palmer, sir? There's no such case on the record."_

_"Sorry? Johnny Palmer, you know, the one who was found in the field?"_

_"Ah, that would be Inspector Robert Lewis' case – Nicholas Owen Pelgrin was the victim's name."_

There was a pause. _"Sorry, what did you say the name was?"_

 _"Inspector Robert Lewis,"_ the duty sergeant repeated. _"He's looking into the Nicholas Pelgrin case. But I'm afraid he's busy at the moment."_ Robbie looked at the timestamp and calculated. He'd have been talking to Richard Pelgrin at the time. _"Would you mind leaving your name and contact number, and I'll get him to call you back?"_

_"Oh. No, it's not_ _that important_ _. I'll_ _ring_ _him again in the morning. Thanks."_

Julie pressed stop. "That's when he hung up. There were no further calls to the station about the Pelgrin case."

"Damn," Robbie swore. Whatever Randy had wanted to tell him, he'd obviously been killed for it, "not that important" or not.

"Daniels then made another call, to a pay-as-you-go mobile number. Untraceable," Julie continued.

"One of his clients, perhaps," James contributed. "If his clientele really does consist of respectable businessmen and Oxford dons, they may have kept separate phones for their illicit activities."

"Perhaps Randy remembered that one of them had something to do with Nicholas," Robbie speculated.

"But why call the client if he suspected him of murder? Why not come to us?"

Robbie shook his head. "I don't know. Let's talk to the family first. Did you locate his next-of-kin?"

"I got his father's address from the database, sir. He's in a nursing home in Banbury."

"He can't be _that_ old," Robbie said reflexively. Not with a son younger than Lynn.

James cleared his throat. "This particular nursing home specialises in patients with memory problems. Might be an early-onset neurodegenerative disease." His eyes flickered up to Robbie's, his expression sympathetic, but steadfast.

Translation: informing the family was going to be grim, not to mention unlikely to produce any leads. But Hathaway would be right there by his side.

Robbie squared his shoulders. "Might as well get it over with. Come on."

* * *

"Oh, dear! How dreadful!" Matron pressed her hand to her mouth and landed in her chair with a thump. "Randy was such a sweet, sweet boy. How on earth are we going to tell Tony?"

"How often did Randy visit his father?" Robbie asked.

"Oh, he was such a dutiful son. He came every single week, always on a Monday, and stayed as long as he could."

"Was he Tony Daniels' only family?"

"I think so. At least, he was the only one who visited. And he paid all the bills for his father's care."

Small wonder that Randy Daniels had been in arrears with his rent, then. Robbie knew that these places cost an arm and a leg, and this place seemed more upmarket than most. Randy must have been very fond of his father.

"And he was doing so well in his job, too!" Matron exclaimed.

"Come again?" Robbie said, startled.

"You know, in his consultancy job. Tony was very, very proud of him."

So Randy had lied to his father. Well, Robbie couldn't blame him. Becoming a male prostitute probably wasn't the career path most people had in mind for an Oxford graduate.

"I wonder...he came in here, last night. He was awfully agitated."

Robbie glanced at Hathaway, who'd straightened up at the news. "Did he say anything to you about what was agitating him?"

"No, he only said that he had to see his father urgently. It was after visiting hours, but it was Randy. We all knew Randy. So we let him in. He was only in Tony's room for about a minute before leaving again, without a word to anyone." Matron looked towards the door, and sighed. "I suppose I should tell Tony, though I'm not confident it will stick. Will you wait out here a moment, gentlemen?"

They were all too glad to leave the task to her, especially when the heartrending wail came.

"God, this is bloody depressing," James muttered.

"Just tragic all round," Robbie agreed. "Who knows what'll happen to him, now that no one's left to pay for his keep."

Matron came out, her eyes red and brimming with tears. "If you have to, you can talk to him now. Though I don't honestly think it'll do much good."

"We have to cover all the bases, Matron, but thanks."

They sidled into the room. Sunlight streamed through the wall-length window, illuminating a row of photographs standing on the sill, and the grieving man weeping his heart out on the bed.

"Mr Daniels, I'm DI Lewis. I'm very sorry for your loss," Robbie proffered, but his words were met with an even louder howl.

"Sir," James said from behind him, in the voice that Robbie knew meant he'd found a clue.

"Excuse me," he said to the oblivious man, and went over to the window to join James.

"You did tell me to emulate DS Chang, sir." James pointed to a gap in the photographs on the sill. "They're all evenly spaced about a foot apart, but these are a good two feet apart."

"Meaning one's missing. Let's see if anyone remembers it. Matron, could you spare us a minute?"

Matron pursed her lips and said she _thought_ there would have been an additional photograph there, but couldn't remember who'd been in it. She departed to interrogate the available nurses as to who might have taken it.

"D'you reckon that Randy came here last night to grab this photo?"

James nodded. "Someone would have rearranged them if the loss had been noticed sooner. What if Randy remembered something about one of his clients – maybe someone who'd expressed an interest in Nicholas – and came here to grab the photograph?"

"What good would the photograph do?" Robbie asked. Then it dawned on him. " _Insurance_."

"Sir?"

"There was something funny Randy said at the end of our interview. He said that he had a back-up plan for his 'retirement', and it was 'insurance'."

"'Insurance'?" James repeated. "Sounds like a codeword to me."

"It does to me too. He boasted that he had powerful and wealthy clients, upstanding members of the local community, who probably would not want it put about that they visited male prostitutes." Robbie gestured towards the photographs. " _These_ are his clients." He could put a name to a good few of them, too, powerful men about town who wouldn't have liked it put about that they'd been consorting with a gigolo.

"But why would they agree to take a photograph with a male prostitute?"

Robbie frowned. It was a good question. "Because it's innocuous enough?" he reasoned. "Easily deniable – they could say it was a young man in a nice suit who walked up to them in the street and requested a photograph."

"Exactly. So how is this 'insurance'? You just said it was easily denied. If he wanted to use this to extort money from his past clients, they'd just laugh in his face...oh." James laid the frame down on its front and undid the catch on the back.

"Oi!" Tony called from the bed. "Don't touch that! It's my son's picture, that!"

"We'll put it back the way we found it, sir, don't worry," Robbie said soothingly.

"He's a consultant, you know," Tony informed them. "He's coming to visit me on Monday. What day is it today?"

Christ. He really had already forgotten. Somehow that made this whole affair ten times worse, knowing that Tony would have to relearn the fact that his son was dead over and over.

"Today's Saturday, Mr Daniels," Robbie answered, then turned back to James. "Find anything?"

Wordlessly, James passed him the frame, his cheeks pink. Stuck to the back was another photograph, this one much more salacious than its innocent cover. Its object had almost certainly been unaware of the fact that it was being taken. Robbie pried it out and found the back covered with tiny handwriting. Dates, times, amounts exchanged, little details about his "date" that no one could know without having seen him starkers.

"D'you realise what this means, James?" Robbie demanded. "It means the solution to this whole case was sitting right here on this windowsill before Randy decided to take it and claim his 'insurance'!"

"And it got him killed," James agreed sombrely.

They tried every question they could think of, but neither Matron nor any of the staff could recall who the missing photograph was of, just that it had been just like the others – Randy and another man, dressed in business attire. Matron helpfully dug out every photograph that had ever been taken in Tony's room, but none of them showed the photograph in enough detail that they'd be able to identify who had been in it.

Finally, Robbie thought to ask: "Matron, have you ever met Randy's roommate, a Nic- I mean, a Johnny Palmer?"

"Why, yes. He used to pop in, sometimes, with Randy. Nice boy, but very quiet. I didn't know him well at all. How is he? He must be so heartbroken at Randy's death."

Robbie exchanged a glance with Hathaway. No need to burden her with the news of an additional murder, he decided. "Can you remember the last time Johnny visited?" he asked, in lieu of an answer.

"I can, as a matter of fact," Matron replied, unexpectedly certain. "I remember because it was Tony's birthday. We were all gathered for a little celebration for him in his room. Johnny and Randy came in, and a moment later Johnny walked out again. Just like that. I remember Randy shouting for him to come back, but Johnny said he had to go see someone, and left. This would have been the third of May."

That was just before Nicholas' disappearance, Robbie calculated – maybe the thing that had _triggered_ Nicholas' disappearance. A glance at Hathaway told him his thoughts were running along the same lines.

"Thank you, Matron. You've been very helpful." Robbie looked back towards the bed. "Goodbye, Tony," he said, but Tony wasn't listening. He was sitting up against the backboard, a photograph of Randy in his trembling hands. A single tear slid down his cheek and wobbled at the point of his chin. Robbie knew that, somehow, Tony recognised that Monday would never come again.

"Let's go," Robbie said to James.

"Where to now?"

"The Augean stables."

* * *

"Excellent use of the classical allusion, sir," was Hathaway's comment as they stepped into Nicholas and Randy's pigsty of a flat. "Are you sure this wasn't ransacked?"

"No, I recognise that pile from yesterday." Robbie pointed.

"So what are we looking for?" James asked, pulling on his gloves.

"The photograph? Maybe he brought it here."

"Seems more likely that the murderer would have taken it away from him last night," James pointed out.

"That's assuming he brought the original with him. Let's take a look."

Half an hour's searching yielded no photographs of the sort displayed in Tony Daniels' room, but Hathaway found something else of interest. "There's the reason Randy couldn't call you directly." James pointed at the crest of the Oxfordshire Police, half-hidden under a pile of papers in the living room. "What did I tell you, sir, untidiness does kill."

Robbie refused to rise to the bait, glad only that James had recovered enough to throw it. He stared at the corner of his card, ruing what might have been. If he'd popped it by the phone along with Clarence Abbicott's note, Randy might still be alive, and able to tell them the name of Nicholas' murderer.

James wandered into the relative oasis of Nicholas' room and began browsing the books on the shelf there. "What did Nicholas read at Oxford?" he called out.

Robbie joined him. "Well, his tutor's an archaeologist. So archaeology, or history perhaps?"

"He seems to have been interested in family trees and things of that ilk. Books on heraldry, genetics, and onomatology – that's the study of names." James indicated a row of books.

That reminded Robbie of the time he and Jean Innocent sat at his computer and looked up names in that baby names website, all while Zoe Kenneth was making preparations to burn James and herself to death. It wasn't a memory he liked to recall.

James pulled a book out of the case and flipped it open to where a photograph was acting as a bookmark. Robbie took a peek. It was a faded photograph of Nicholas as a small boy, in the arms of a woman who was undoubtedly his mother. James was staring at it with a look of infinite sadness, no doubt remembering his own mam.

The urge to hold James, to shield him from every danger and every sorrow, seized Robbie. He only just managed to stop himself from giving in to the instinct. It wasn't the first time he'd experienced it, he suddenly realised. He'd felt it when Zoe Kenneth's apartment exploded, and he'd rolled on top of James to protect him from the shards of raining glass. And again, when he'd seen James jerk back from the impact of Paul Hopkiss' shot. And again, when he'd sat across a pub table from James as he confessed to having caught existential flu.

Call himself a detective? He'd been utterly, utterly blind, even to his own feelings. Now how was he supposed to work out how James felt, whether he reciprocated at all, without mucking everything up in case he didn't?

Well, he wasn't going to find the answer here. "Back to the office," he decided. "We're not getting anywhere. How many witness reports d'you have left to go through?"

James stuck the photo back into a random spot in the book, and returned it to the shelf. "About half, but it seems that everyone was too busy having a good time to observe a murderer slipping into the storeroom."

"Well, maybe there'll be something in the other half."

James shrugged. "What about you, what lead are you going to follow up?"

"Maybe I'll ring up Maddie, see if her team's found out anything from the neighbours."

James raised an eyebrow. "Any excuse to get back in touch, eh, sir?"

Was that a hint of jealousy Robbie detected in James' voice? Maybe he'd got the opening he needed after all. "I dunno, looks like she's already spoken for," he said with a shrug.

James stared at him until realisation kicked in. "What, her and _Chang_? You're joking."

"They looked like a cute couple to me," Robbie said, outwardly imperturbable, though inside, his heart was hammering.

James sputtered, "But what about the age gap, the power imbalance?"

"Someone persuaded me yesterday they didn't matter." Before James had the time to react, Robbie's mobile rang, spoiling the moment. He swore under his breath, then answered. "Hello? Laura? Yeah, we're heading back...all right, we'll see you there."

* * *

Laura didn't need to ask how the case was going. Robbie's folded arms as he stared morosely at the whiteboard, and James' hunched posture over the sheaf of papers he was going through, were enough of a tell. Unfortunately, her report wasn't likely to cheer them up much.

"PM report for Randy," she said, handing it over.

"Thanks, Laura. Any news? Did the murderer leave his name tattooed in Randy's armpit or something?"

Laura made a face at him, then said, "No, as a matter of fact. The killer was very careful not to leave a trace, again."

"You think it's the same man?"

"I know _you_ do. Glove prints, no DNA. All I can tell you is that he was probably pretty strong to get Randy up on that St Andrew's Cross. Randy was no weakling, and there are signs of a struggle."

"Would it have left any marks on the killer?"

"Maybe, but no blood was drawn."

"All right. Thanks for delivering this, Laura."

"I only wish I could've been of more help," Laura replied, directing her gaze towards Hathaway. He nodded his thanks at her, his face screwed up in grim determination. He was going to solve this case by hook or by crook, she knew.

Laura was about to leave when a name on the whiteboard caught her eye. "Clarence Abbicott? The archaeologist? Is he one of your suspects?"

"Not really. He was Nicholas' tutor while Nicholas was still an undergraduate. He gave us Nicholas' name. No motive, as far as we can tell. Good alibi for the time of death you gave us, too."

"Then why is he in your rogues' gallery?"

"Because there's just something about him that makes my hair stand on end." Robbie's mouth twisted downwards in what looked very much like disgust, which surprised Laura. Robbie tended to think the best of people – a strange but endearing quality in a detective, who'd seen the worst in people time and time again, Laura had thought. At least, he had done, up until Val's death. He'd become harder, more cynical, after that. But he seemed to have reversed course in the past few years, become that bit more cheerful, more optimistic, more trusting. Maybe it was his grief easing as the years passed. Or maybe it was the company he was keeping. Not that James was the most cheerful of men. But he was good for Robbie.

Robbie caught her thoughtful gaze and misinterpreted it for something else. "And now you're going to tell me this Abbicott bloke's an old school friend or something," he said sheepishly.

"Nothing of the sort. I don't even know him personally. But I did read a book by him once."

"What about?" James asked immediately.

"Bog bodies."

"Bog bodies? More reading-up for when you go on Mastermind?" Robbie queried.

Laura smiled back, more when she saw James' forehead crinkle in confusion. "Purely for professional development. Some bog bodies are from centuries BCE, but when they were discovered they were so well-preserved by their anaerobic environment that they were taken for recent murder victims. I didn't want to be the next idiot pathologist who made the same mistake."

"Dr Hobson," James interrupted urgently. "Wasn't Nicholas Pelgrin found in a foetal position too?"

"You should remember, you were green enough when we straightened him out," Laura replied, before she realised the import of his "too". "Just like the bog bodies."

For Robbie's benefit, since he was looking more than a little confused, she elaborated, "Many of the bog bodies were buried in a foetal position – the theory is that it was for symbolic, ceremonial reasons – ritual sacrifice and all that. _And_ the body we discovered yesterday was in a foetal position."

Once he had the facts, Robbie was quick to catch on, as always. "And if he had been pushed down into the dirt and was scrabbling for air, he'd hardly have died in a foetal position, whether he was tied up or not."

The boys were obviously getting excited, and as always Laura was called upon to be the voice of reason. "So what's the theory, that Abbicott murdered Pelgrin and decided to bury him like the bog bodies? I mean, I know that James called it a bog, but Stetton's field was far from the real thing. It really was just a muddy farmer's field. And if there's one man in England who would know the difference, it would be Clarence Abbicott."

" _Are_ there any peat bogs in England?" Robbie asked.

"Mostly in the north," James said.

"Well, I think Abbicott's worth another look, don't you? Thanks, Laura! Come on, James."

"Glad to be of service," Laura called after Robbie's retreating back. She knew full well that once Robbie was in that sort of mood, there was no stopping him.

James did stop, however. "You missed your calling, Doctor. You ought to have been a detective."

That was high praise, coming from James. "Thank you, Sergeant. I suppose I ought to return the compliment and say that you're a loss to the medical profession. Only your bedside manner does leave something to be desired."

A flash of guilt crossed James' face, before he realised that she was joking, and that she was trying very hard to bring things back to normal between them. He relaxed visibly, his face assuming its blandest expression. "I could always give forensic pathology a try."

Laura grinned and flapped him away. "Go on with you, before I change my mind about making you attend an internal PM."

James flashed her a rare, blinding grin, before loping off after Robbie. But not so blinding that Laura couldn't tell that it had disappeared off James' face the moment he thought she couldn't see.

* * *

The friendly porter at Lonsdale remembered Robbie well enough. "DI Lewis, wasn't it? Are you wanting Professor Abbicott again, sir?"

"Yeah. Staircase B, second floor, right?"

"Yes, sir, but you won't find him there. He's gone away. Didn't he tell you? Fishing trip, he said."

Bloody hell – Robbie had _explicitly_ instructed the man to remain in Oxford! He should have trusted his instincts, investigated Abbicott more thoroughly from the start. The man's jumpiness around Robbie should had been a major red flag. And there'd been something else fishy about him, something Robbie couldn't put his finger on.

"When did Professor Abbicott leave, Mr Tanner?"

"Yesterday afternoon, sir. Not long after you popped by, matter of fact."

They were interrupted by a passing scout who'd overheard the tail end of their conversation. "You didn't tell me Professor Abbicott went away, Charlie," she said. "There's been things moved in his room since yesterday."

"What? You mean, there's been a break-in?" The porter looked flabbergasted.

"I think we'd better go take a look, Mr Tanner," Robbie said.

"Of course, of course. Good thing you're here." Tanner fished for a set of keys and led them to Staircase B. The scout came along with them, and pointed out the items that were out of place in the room. "See, there was a book there yesterday, that's gone now. And look, there's today's newspaper in the bin."

"But you're positive Professor Abbicott hasn't been in today at all?" Hathaway asked, turning to Tanner.

"I didn't see him coming in, no, and I've been on duty all morning." Tanner said. He looked frightened, and with good reason. He could easily lose his job for a security lapse like that.

"Did anyone come into College whom you didn't know at all?"

"Bunch of tourists in the morning. You don't think one of them..."

"Broke into a don's chambers to read a newspaper? Seems rather unlikely," James said.

Robbie reviewed what he knew about Abbicott. "Mr Tanner, does Professor Abbicott drive?"

"He usually gets around on his bike, sir. Hasn't got a car. But – hang on, he does sometimes use Professor Quentin's Toyota."

"Is Professor Quentin here?"

"No, he's away for the whole summer. Off in Italy, doing fieldwork."

"Does he live in College?"

"No, sir, he lives in town, with his wife."

Tanner duly furnished them with the address, and ten minutes later, they were pulling up to the home of Albert Quentin, professor of medieval studies. "Sir," Hathaway said immediately, crouching by the Toyota Starlet in the driveway. Robbie saw what he'd seen. The grooves of the tyres on one side were encrusted with mud. The other side were much less filthy.

"I'd bet you anything the tyres match the tracks we found at the edge of Stetton's field," James said. He straightened up. His eyes went wide, and he took off at a run.

"James?" Robbie turned, and saw a man in a brown trenchcoat scurry away behind a hedge.

"Stop! Police!" The man didn't stop, but James launched a flying tackle at him, bringing him down to the ground anyway. Robbie jogged up just as James pinned him down.

"What are you doing? This is police brutality, this is!" the man bleated, eyes wide with panic.

"James, why did...?"

"Recognise him?" James asked, between pants. His hair was dishevelled, his tie askew, and Robbie suddenly wanted nothing more than to loosen that knot, undo that top button, and gaze his fill on that long, slender neck...

 _Hardly the time or the place, Robbie_ , he chided himself, and forced himself to look away, and at Hathaway's captive. Trench coat despite the fine weather, lopsided moustache. "That's the guy who...who molested you at the convention!"

"More than that," James said. He ripped off the moustache to a cry of protest from his prisoner.

Robbie recognised him again. "Professor Abbicott!"

So _that_ was why he'd looked so familiar – and why he'd been so nervous around Robbie. He'd worked out that both of them were policemen – perhaps he'd even seen the altercation with Terry Palmer – and had realised that he truly had had a brush with the law.

James tugged Abbicott to his feet, then grimaced in pain.

"What did you do?" Robbie asked immediately.

"Turned my ankle, I think." He tested his weight on it. "It's not too bad. I'll be all right." He surrendered his charge to Robbie.

"Professor Clarence Abbicott, we'd like you to accompany us to the station to answer a few questions," Robbie intoned.

* * *

"So, Professor. Care to explain the disguise?"

The man across the interrogation table was the picture of abject misery. "It was just...I didn't want to run into anyone who might recognise me at the convention."

"You told the porter at Lonsdale College that you would be away for a few days, yet here you are, skulking around Oxford in a fake moustache."

"Well, I did promise that I wouldn't leave town, didn't I? I just...needed some space to breathe, after everything that happened."

"Can you describe the nature of 'everything that happened', please, Professor Abbicott?"

Abbicott crumbled to pieces. "I suppose you'll find out by testing the car. Nicholas Pelgrin turned up on my doorstep two nights ago."

"Alive?" Hathaway interjected.

"Dead, and very much so. He'd obviously been murdered. I was stunned, shocked, I had no idea what to do."

"Calling the police to report a dead body would seem to be the logical next step," Hathaway said acidly.

"I wasn't thinking logically. I was afraid that his murder would be pinned on me."

"Why is that, Professor Abbicott?" Robbie pressed. The man clearly had a guilty conscience.

"Because..." Abbicott hesitated, then it all came out in a rush. "Because I'd had an affair with Nicholas Pelgrin when he was an undergraduate at Lonsdale."

Robbie and James exchanged glances. "You're the one who introduced him to BDSM?"

"Yes." Abbicott buried his face in his hands. "It went on...for a few months. And then one day he came to me and said he was leaving Oxford – the university, at least. He was going to become one of Palmer's boys. I should've known, should've protected him better. Palmer loves his blond-haired, blue-eyed lads."

"As do you, Professor Abbicott," Robbie interjected.

Abbicott looked ashamed. "As did I," he agreed.

"You didn't try to keep him from going off with Palmer?"

"No. I knew by then that I couldn't give Nicholas what he wanted."

"What did he want?"

"He wanted a father figure, someone stern, someone he could look up to. Someone willing to dish out discipline, and I mean _serious_ discipline. I wasn't into that side of things. Bondage, yes. Hitting him, no." Abbicott took a deep breath. "He was like a son to me, and I could never hurt him."

Robbie snorted. "You mean, you betrayed your duty of care to the boy, to satisfy your own carnal desires."

"It wasn't just about the sex. I loved him, Inspector, truly."

"So much that you dumped him somewhere like he was just a piece of rubbish, if you didn't actually kill him," Hathaway jumped in.

"No, I didn't kill him!" Abbicott was panicking right and left now. "I admit it, I dumped him in that field. I went crazy, I just didn't know what to do. I loaded him up in the boot of Quentin's car and drove off, thinking of getting it as far away from home as I could. Then it occurred to me that the longer I drove with it in the back, the more likely I was to be discovered with a dead body, so I just stopped the car by some field and left it there."

"Arranging his body in a foetal position so he would look like one of your precious bog bodies?" Robbie suggested.

"What? No, I just...I had to fit him into the boot of the car. He was a tall boy, and it's a small car."

Robbie just managed to quash the look of chagrin that came to his face and make it disapproving instead.

"I didn't have anything to use as a shroud, so I did what I could. I covered him up with some soil – well, it was practically mud – and left him. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry."

"And last night, Professor Abbicott. Were you at the party at the Holborne Hotel?"

"Yes, I was," Abbicott said, and burst into tears.

* * *

"Laura Hobson isn't going to half laugh when I tell her the real reason why Nicholas Pelgrin wound up buried in that farmer's field in a crouching position," Robbie groaned as they made their way from the interview room up to their office.

" _By indirections find directions out_ , sir," James said, giving him a commiserating look.

"Don't tell me. Shakespeare the detective."

"Our old friend Polonius, actually. Do you believe Abbicott's story?"

"Let's find out. He's copped to obstruction and unlawful burial of a body, we can hold him for a while on that. We'll need to check Abbicott's alibi for the night of Nicholas' murder again. The bartender at the Cowley Retreat confirmed his presence that evening when PC Myers talked to him, but maybe he lost track of Abbicott in the crowd during the night."

"Even so, sir, Abbicott couldn't possibly have made it to Dorset and back while the barman wasn't looking," James objected.

"True, but at this stage we still don't have 100% confirmation that Nicholas did die in Dorset. So let's check anyway."

"What about Randy's death? Abbicott doesn't have an alibi for that. In fact, he was right there on the scene."

"But as far we know, he hasn't got a motive for killing Randy. He wasn't in any of Randy's photographs."

"He hasn't got a motive for killing Nicholas, either. Besides, shouldn't we be looking for someone who _wasn't_ among Randy's photographs?"

Robbie shrugged. "He's too weak in the knees to be a killer, if you ask me. He seemed to genuinely care for the lad."

James raised a sceptical eyebrow. "You'd rather go for his theory that Nicholas' body was dumped on his doorstep to frame him? And that it was pure coincidence that he happened to be on the scene of Randy's murder?"

"Hardly a coincidence, lad. Just about everyone who knew both Nicholas and Randy _was_ at the party," Robbie pointed out. "As for Abbicott's theory, it's not completely beyond the realm of possibility. If Palmer wanted to pin the blame on someone –"

"Palmer?" James said sharply.

"Who else?" Abbicott had steadfastly refused to name names, but his terror of Terry Palmer had been all too obvious.

James shrugged. "So shall I go talk to the barman, sir?"

"No, I'll take care of that. You go home and rest that foot." Robbie could see that James was limping a little, though he was bravely trying to hide the injury.

"I'm fine, sir, really..." James began to protest.

"Let's not start that palaver again," Robbie cut in. "Go home, and that's an order. Unless you'd rather Doctor Hobson take a look at it?"

James gave him an eyeroll that wouldn't have looked alien on a teenaged Mark's face. "No, sir." He looked past Robbie's shoulder. "Yes, Julie?"

Robbie turned to see her standing patiently there, a small smile playing about her lips. She must have overheard the tail part of their conversation. "Excuse me for interrupting, sir, Sarge, but the Chief Super wants you in her office," she informed them.

"For an update, or...?"

"No, sir, I believe Nicholas Pelgrin's father is with her."

God, not one of those sorts of meetings. Especially when they still had no idea who'd killed Nicholas – though arguably it wasn't their responsibility to find that out. But Richard Pelgrin didn't strike Robbie as the kind of man who would accept any excuses.

The prospect of a meeting with the victim's family seemed to inflame Hathaway's injury. "Shall I accompany you, sir, or follow your orders to go home and rest?"

Robbie decided to spare him. "I'll make your excuses to Innocent. You cuttle on home." James hobbled off as quickly as his ankle allowed, and Robbie headed in the opposite direction to Innocent's office.

"Ah, Lewis." Innocent beckoned him to the chair next to Pelgrin. "No Hathaway?"

"Sustained a small injury while detaining a suspect, ma'am. He's off to have it seen to," Robbie prevaricated slightly. Innocent didn't exactly favour the concept of self-medication.

"It seems that I am fated never to meet the elusive Sergeant Hathaway," Richard Pelgrin said with a thin smile.

"Mr Pelgrin requested an update on the investigation, Lewis," Innocent explained. "I was just informing him that DCI Larimer has formally charged one suspect with murder and two others with aiding and abetting."

Robbie sat up a little straighter. Palmer and his two submissives, it must have been. What new information had come to her to take that next step, Robbie wondered.

"And I suppose the suspect Sergeant Hathaway so valiantly captured was arrested on a related charge," Pelgrin said. "I must say, I am most impressed with the way both forces have handled my son's case. I will never get Nicholas back, but it is a consolation to know that those who brought him to this pass will be brought to justice."

Innocent beamed. "Just doing our jobs, Mr Pelgrin."

Pelgrin stood up. "I'll head down to Dorset first thing in the morning and talk to DCI Larimer there. Thank you both for your hard work." Pelgrin shook hands with both of them – Christ, he had a grip like a vise – and left.

Well, that hadn't been as painful as Robbie had anticipated. The question was, why? Robbie turned back to Innocent. "On what grounds were Palmer and his boys arrested, ma'am?"

"Based on the CCTV recordings from Palmer's house."

"What? But just a few hours ago, you said that the recordings showed that Nicholas Pelgrin _wasn't_ present!" Robbie objected.

"Maddie and Chang went through the recordings again and noticed some disparities between the timestamps and Palmer's account of events. They contacted the security company to confirm it and were informed, rather sheepishly, that there had been a glitch. The security company managed to recover some missing segments and sent them along. One shows Nicholas Pelgrin walking into the house the day after he went missing. Another shows a body being dragged out last night, in the dark."

"And those were the only two missing segments?" Robbie asked incredulously.

"No, there were a handful of other ones of lesser importance. Mostly of Palmer and his boys going in and out."

Robbie wrinkled his nose. "A bit fishy, isn't it, ma'am?"

"The company were most apologetic and said they couldn't quite explain how it happened. But it's pretty damning evidence, you have to admit."

Not as damning as Robbie would have liked. "Has Palmer confessed?"

Innocent shook her head. "No, he strenuously maintains his innocence. And Anton Germain retracted his confession once he realised it didn't help his, er, master one bit. But Maddie thinks there's sufficient evidence to charge them."

"So that's that, ma'am," Robbie said, exhaling a sigh. On the Dorset side of things, anyway.

"What about the man you've got locked up now?"

"Professor Clarence Abbicott, Nicholas' old tutor, and the one who introduced him to BDSM. He confessed to dumping the body after finding Nicholas dead on his doorstep."

"Could Palmer have planted it on him?"

"Abbicott insinuated as much. And maybe the news of Palmer's arrest will ease his fear enough that he'll testify against him."

"What about Randy Daniels? Could that be Palmer's handiwork?"

Robbie shook his head. "Doesn't quite fit, ma'am. He had means and opportunity, to be sure. But not motive." He explained their theory of the missing photograph. "Palmer wouldn't ever have employed Daniels for that purpose, ma'am. He wasn't Palmer's type."

"Pity." Innocent thought for a moment, shuffling around a mental staff roster. "Right. I want you and Hathaway back here tomorrow morning, to hand over the Randy Daniels case to DI Peterson."

Hand over the case? To _Action Man_? "Ma'am – " Robbie began to protest, but Innocent steamrolled on.

"As you reminded me yesterday, this was supposed to be your weekend off. And I don't want Hathaway traipsing all over the county and exacerbating his injury. Once you've handed over the case, you can have the rest of the day, and Monday and Tuesday, off in lieu."

"But – "

"You've done enough, Lewis. You helped identify Nicholas Pelgrin's killers. You figured out why the body was carted back to Oxfordshire. You discovered the significance of the missing photograph. I'm sure that with some good old-fashioned legwork, DI Peterson will be able to round up Randy Daniels' full client list and figure out who's missing from the set. Who knows, it might turn out to be Palmer after all." Innocent smiled warmly at him. "Have a good time at your daughter's, Robbie. You deserve it."

* * *

Party music thumped from a nearby flat as Robbie turned onto Hathaway's street later that evening. The occasional burst of laughter and clinking glasses erupted every few seconds. Somebody was having a very good time, and occupying all the parking spots on the street in the process.

Fortuitously, a car pulled out just outside James' flat, and Robbie slotted in gratefully. He got out and glanced towards the window – good, the light was on. He picked up the bag of takeaway, trying to quash the butterflies in his tummy. This was hardly a date, he wasn't bringing flowers. It was just a regular meal with his sergeant, to celebrate the end of a case. A less than satisfactory end, but an end nevertheless.

As he approached the entryway, a tall, skinny, solitary shadow limped past the lit window. It wasn't right that James should be home alone, while other people his age were having fun on a Saturday evening. Robbie's presence might rectify that, he supposed, but he couldn't help but feel a poor substitute.

The shadow in the window bent down for a moment. When it straightened it was carrying a bottle – of wine, perhaps, or spirits – and pouring it into a glass. Robbie frowned. That wasn't quite the form of pain relief he'd been thinking of when he'd suggested James go home and rest.

He went up to the door, and rang the bell.

A series of hurried thumps followed. As the experienced parent of two former teenagers, he instantly recognised it as the sound of contraband being hidden away, before the door finally opened.

"Sir?" Hathaway blinked at him with unhidden surprise. He never went over to James'; their "home time" was always spent at Robbie's. In all their years of working together, he'd only been here once, and that was when he'd driven James back from the hospital after he'd nearly been burnt alive.

"Came to look in on you, Sergeant. If it's not too late?"

James hesitated, before his natural courtesy reasserted himself. He gestured loosely towards the interior of the flat. "Not at all, sir. Please. May I take that?"

Robbie deftly swung the bag of food out of James' grasp. "That's all right, lad. I'll handle the dinner. I assume you haven't eaten?"

"Actually, I..." Robbie raised an eyebrow at him, and James recanted. "No, sir, I haven't."

"Sit down, rest that foot," Robbie ordered. James obediently sat himself down on the settee, in between his guitar and a pile of books. "How's it feel?"

"Not as bad as this afternoon," James replied, his gaze not quite meeting Robbie's eyes.

"Did you take anything for the pain?"

"Um. A couple of Panadol."

"Okay." Robbie set the food down on the counter and began hunting around the kitchen.

"Are you sure I can't help you with the plates and cutlery, sir?" James called, the anxiety telltale in his voice.

"No, you stay where you are, lad." Robbie found what he'd been looking for. On a shelf, a shot glass, still wet from a hasty rinse. And under the cabinet, a bottle of single malt Glenfiddich, only a quarter full, the cap only loosely on. Trust James to have impeccably good taste while ruining his health.

Robbie sighed. He hadn't come over to be a nag, but needs must. Innocent had reminded him that he had a duty of care to his sergeant, after all...

_"You mean, you betrayed your duty of care to the boy, to satisfy your own carnal desires."_

The hypocrisy of the accusation he'd thrown at Abbicott suddenly struck him. How was what he'd been wishing for all day any different from what Abbicott had done to Nicholas Pelgrin? To be sure, James was hardly a puling undergraduate, and it wasn't as if Robbie would ever contemplate coercing him into anything James didn't want for himself. But...hell, Robbie was practically old enough to be the lad's _father_. What if the reciprocity he'd been imagining hopefully on James' part was simply a fond respect for his old governor?

A movement next to him snatched him back to the present. He looked to his left to see James staring guiltily at the bottle in Robbie's hand.

"Started on the hard stuff pretty early, eh, lad?" Robbie cursed himself for his blindness. How could he not have seen how badly the lad was hurting?

James stiffened. "I wasn't aware that was against regulations, sir," he protested, with his usual prickliness when it came to anything to do with his personal life.

"Just tell me you didn't start this bottle tonight, and that you didn't chase down the painkillers with it," Robbie said, keeping his tone conciliatory.

"I didn't, sir," James said, and Robbie could see that he was telling the truth.

"And that this drinking alone isn't becoming a regular habit?"

This time, James remained silent.

Robbie considered possible approaches. He could hardly order James to stop drinking. He didn't exactly have the moral high ground here, with his lapse into alcoholism after Val's death. But he couldn't leave James to continue drowning his sorrows in whisky alone, night after night. "Tell you what. The next time you feel the urge to open a bottle, invite me over, eh?"

"I don't drink this stuff in company, sir," James said flatly.

"Oh, aye? I suppose it's too expensive to share," Robbie said, surprised at the almost-rude rejection.

James sighed. "It's not that, sir."

 _Then what, lad?_ Robbie wanted to ask, but he could already sense James closing off from him. This was as personal as sharing the story of his mother's suicide had been, and just as unwelcome a topic of discussion.

"Right, well. We'd better tuck into that food before it gets cold." This time, he allowed James to set the table, while he opened the containers of curry.

"What's all this for, anyway?" James asked, surveying the spread.

"To celebrate the end of the case."

James' jaw fell open. "You can't have solved everything in the last hour and a half."

"No, lad. Though Maddie's team made some progress." He told James about the recovered CCTV footage, and about the meeting with Richard Pelgrin, while they ate. "And then Innocent told me we were off the case, and to hand it over to Action Man first thing tomorrow morning. Since you got yourself injured in the line of duty and all."

"What did you tell her, that I got shot?" James demanded.

Robbie chuckled. "She wanted to give us at least a bit of this weekend off. And we're getting Monday and Tuesday off as well. A little Father's Day present, I suppose you could call it. Either that, or she doesn't want the two of us interviewing the great men of Oxford about their sexual peccadilloes."

James snorted, then looked keenly at Robbie. "You're not happy about getting pulled off the case, are you." It was a statement rather than a question.

"There's still a couple of things that bother me. I don't believe that the man in the missing photograph was either Terry Palmer or Professor Abbicott. Randy simply wasn't their type."

"Maybe it wasn't either of them. Maybe it was one of Palmer's other submissives. Could explain why Nicholas freaked out at the nursing home," James suggested.

Robbie thought it through. "Not a bad theory. Make sure to tell it to Peterson tomorrow."

"And what was the other thing?"

Robbie chewed on a piece of chicken meditatively, trying to formulate his suspicions into a coherent thought. "Nicholas Pelgrin seemed to take a pretty grim view of what a father should be like, didn't he? Palmer over Abbicott? The man who'd whale away at him over a man who wouldn't even hit him to stay with him?"

"No telling what floated his boat, sir."

"I was just wondering whether Richard Pelgrin might have abused him, when he was a kid."

James' face shuttered. "I hardly think the one follows from the other, sir."

Robbie was beginning to put two and two together. "Well, as of tomorrow morning, it's Peterson's problem, not ours." He pushed back from the table, full from the meal. "So what'll you do after, lad? It's Father's Day. Going to see your old man?"

James stood up so abruptly, he almost tipped a carton of curry over. For a moment, Robbie thought he saw a glint in James' eyes, dangerous, angry. Then he passed a hand over his brow and it was gone.

"James?" he asked cautiously, startled by the glimpse he'd had of a very different Hathaway.

"Sorry, sir, it's just...I'm afraid I'm not very good company tonight. And the answer to your question is no." Hathaway hesitated, then uttered the words that broke Robbie's heart. "Not all of us were as lucky as Lyn and Mark, sir."

* * *

Robbie wasn't quite sure how he made it out to the car. Through the fog in his mind, he vaguely recalled a half-hearted offer to clear the dishes that James had firmly declined, and a hasty goodnight, before finding himself out on the pavement.

 _Well done, Robbie_ , he congratulated himself grimly. Not only had he twisted himself into a knot over a daydream that could never happen, but he'd managed to alienate his sergeant in the process.

 _What the hell did you expect? Take a look at yourself in the mirror, man._ How could someone like James ever see him as anything more than a father figure?

Still, crap detective or not, that was one mystery solved. And he'd be able to solve another, if he only had a bit more information. But he wouldn't get it from James.

He couldn't pull up Hathaway's file from Human Resources without inviting comment, but maybe there were other ways of getting what he needed.

"Laura? You still at the office?"

"What else does a self-respecting pathologist have to do on a Saturday night?"

"Great. Listen, can you look up Hathaway's next-of-kin?"

"Next-of-kin? Lewis, what the hell is going on?" Her voice rose so high he covered the phone in the irrational fear that James might hear.

"He's all right, Laura," Robbie said hastily, before she got the wrong end of the stick. "It's just...background research."

"You're investigating your own sergeant? Don't you have a double murder to solve, Lewis?"

"Not anymore. It'd take too long to explain, Laura. Besides, this is all your fault – you're the one who keeps saying I should talk to him." And a fat lot of good all this talking had done him, he added to himself sourly.

Laura exhaled loudly. "All right, but I expect a blow-by-blow account tomorrow."

Robbie promised, and there was a silence on the other end as she went about looking up the requisite information. "Next-of-kin. Michael Hathaway, father. It's an Abingdon number." She sounded surprised. So was he – surely he would have heard something of Hathaway's dad before now if he lived so close by.

She reeled off the numbers, and he took them down.

"Thanks, Laura," he said gratefully. "Tell you what this is all about tomorrow, eh? 'Night."

"'Night, Robbie. Good luck with him."

She rang off. Robbie retrieved his work laptop and fired it up. The phone number belonged to a stable in Didcot. Interesting. Then he went onto the PNC and searched for Michael Hathaway. It returned a list of ASBOs as long as his arm, plus some scattered citations for being drunk and disorderly. He sighed. His hunch had been right, then.

He'd seen too many homes destroyed by alcoholic violence not to picture it – young James, cowering away from one of his father's drunken rages, getting yanked out from his hiding-place by the arm and then – what? Fisticuffs? Or something still worse? The older Hathaway had worked at a stable, and James had seemed all too familiar with what a whipmark should look like.

As if Crevecoeur and losing his mam hadn't been enough. Robbie shook his head.

He'd once been sent for a seminar on alcoholism, years ago during his time in Vice, where they'd discussed the long-term effects on children of alcoholics. Difficulty relaxing and having fun. Taking themselves too seriously. Loyal to a fault. Judging themselves without mercy. Difficulty forming intimate relationships. That was Hathaway to a T.

It explained that cryptic remark of James', too, that he didn't drink spirits in company. Because he was afraid of having inherited his father's propensity towards drunken violence. Who knew, perhaps he had.

Robbie glanced towards James' flat. All the windows were now dark. James must have gone to bed.

He debated with himself for a moment. It would be like pouring salt onto an open wound, but he had to do it, for James' sake.

He reached for his mobile, and began to dial.

 


	5. Chapter 5

They'd made arrangements to meet at eight. Three cars pulled into the station carpark at quarter to. "'Morning, Lewis," DI Peterson hailed Robbie chirpily as he exited his BMW – of course Innocent's golden boy would have wrangled one of the new additions to the fleet.

It was an unusually uncharitable thought for Robbie, who wouldn't normally give a toss what car a colleague drove, but he wasn't exactly feeling himself after a sleepless night. He'd spent it going over the conversation with Hathaway a thousand times, wishing that he'd said _this_ , or not said _that_. Not that it would have fixed anything. It'd all been said, and that was the end of it.

"Morning, Peterson," he responded, then looked across at James, who had come up behind him. "All right this morning, Hathaway?" he asked, studying his sergeant's face for signs of a hangover – and more importantly, for signs of lingering injury, and resentment over last night's conversation.

He could find none of the former. James looked about as well-rested as could be expected. That was perhaps the only thing he could congratulate himself on about last night's performance – that he'd prevented James from imbibing more than he actually had. As for the limp, he could discern only the slightest asymmetry in James' gait, but then he'd hardly want to come off as weak in front of Peterson. And as for resentment –

"Quite well, thank you, sir," James answered, the words coming out overly formal and polite. Even Action Man sensed it, judging by the eyebrow he raised.

"Well, let's get inside and get this over with," he said, and for once, Robbie was in complete agreement with him. He went with Peterson into the station, Hathaway following a respectful distance behind.

The floor of the side entrance had been waxed overnight and a sign told them to steer clear while it dried, so they made their way round through the public lobby. It was pretty deserted at this time of the week – all the usual Saturday night crowd would have been cleared before seven – and now there was only one person waiting, a man sitting ramrod straight in a plastic chair. As Robbie and Peterson walked by, he uttered an unintelligible exclamation, stood up, and stalked towards James.

The man was tall, only an inch shorter than James, but burlier. The thatch of blond hair told Robbie that he should have been pale, except that his skin was tanned like leather from a lifetime of working outdoors and his cheeks bore the permanent red flush of the chronic alcoholic. He should have been lean, but his otherwise slender frame was marred by the beginnings of a beer gut. Still, he was clearly accustomed to hard, physical work, judging by the muscles bulging on either arm.

One of which was now culminating in a clenched fist and heading straight for James' head.

Hathaway was usually so dexterous that Robbie expected him to avoid the punch easily. Instead he stood there like a deer in the headlamps, a look of wide-eyed horror in his eyes, and took the hit right in the ear.

He staggered backwards as Robbie, Peterson, and the duty officers rushed to restrain his attacker. It took all of their combined strength to hold the man back as he lunged again towards James. "How could you?" he shouted. "How _could_ you!"

"Sir, please!" James pleaded.

"What?" Robbie and the man responded simultaneously, then eyed each other with suspicion.

On closer inspection, Robbie realised with a sinking heart that he knew exactly who this man was. He'd seen him in a much younger photograph the night before.

"You call your dad ' _sir_ '?" he asked James, who still had a hand to his ear and looked more miserable than he'd ever seen him.

James answered with a look of deepest betrayal.

For a long moment, Robbie stared back at his sergeant, uncomprehending, before he realised what James must be thinking. That the sudden appearance of his father, here at the station, was too much of a coincidence, after yesterday's interrogations.

"James, no, I didn't..." Robbie began, but without a word, James spun on his heel and ran out of the station.

"You come back here right this minute, James!" his father roared. "I'm not done with you yet!"

"All right, that's enough out of you," Peterson said, grunting from the effort of keeping Hathaway Senior from running off. "Look, Lewis, I'll take care of him. Aren't you going to go after Hathaway?"

"No, that's all right. He just needs to be alone for a bit." James wouldn't thank him to drag him back here to suffer the pitying curiosity of his fellow officers. He'd come back on his own when he'd calmed down.

Then Robbie could explain everything. And make his proposal.

* * *

"I've put Hathaway's father in an interview room to cool down. A couple of PCs are keeping an eye on him," Peterson announced, as he entered Robbie and James' office. "Any idea what that was all about?"

"No idea," Robbie lied. "Never met the man in my life."

It was a pity that his father should have chosen to make his appearance here, in front of James' colleagues. Robbie still couldn't shake the memory of that look of sheer humiliation on James' face. At least it was a Sunday. Another twenty-four hours and the station would have been bustling with policemen and members of the public. Still, for it to have happened in front of Peterson was bad enough.

"Not exactly the steak pie and gift tie most Father's Day reunions are made of," Peterson commented.

"Yes, well, let's get on with it, shall we?" Robbie said testily.

"We're not waiting for Hathaway?"

"I can tell you everything you need to know." Robbie pulled the stack of files towards him.

Peterson shrugged and wheeled James' chair from behind his desk over to Robbie's. Robbie bristled, but there were no reasonable grounds on which he could object, so he didn't.

Peterson took the first file off the stack and flipped it open, to the photograph of Nicholas. "Richard Pelgrin's son," he remarked, shaking his head. "I can't believe Jean let you touch this case with a ten-foot pole."

Robbie very nearly retorted, _you could have had this case from the beginning, if only you had a sergeant as quick and clever as Hathaway_ , but instead he uttered a milder "why not?"

Peterson bestowed a pitying look on Robbie. "You have absolutely no idea who Pelgrin is, do you? He's the most powerful man you've never heard of."

"He's an architect, man."

"An architect to the rich and famous," Peterson corrected him. "That gives him friends in high places. Good chums with the Home Secretary, from what I hear. Even built his house in the country."

That explained why Innocent had looked like a baby given a rattle when Pelgrin complimented the speed of their investigation. "So?"

"So, a bad job in this case could spell budget ruin down the road," Peterson said, with the air of a parent explaining something simple to a small child. "That's the trouble with you, Lewis. You're always too focused on the details. You never look at the bigger picture."

"I don't do a bad job on any case, no matter how rich and famous the victim, or the victim's father," Robbie retorted. "And I don't know any detective worth his or her salt who doesn't focus on the details."

Peterson pursed his lips, but didn't pursue the argument. "Fill me in on the details of the case, then."

Robbie explained everything, detailing how they'd come to arrest Palmer and Abbicott. They argued for a while over what to do about Randy Daniels' murder.

"You're constructing an unnecessarily complex theory based on a photograph that you're not even sure exists," Peterson pointed out. "It doesn't make sense that two different people murdered two flatmates one day apart. Occam's Razor, Lewis. It has to be Palmer. He got angry at the boy, for whatever reason. Maybe he'd gone back to his old tutor and was carrying on with him on the side. You say Palmer has a terrible temper. He probably disowned Nicholas, physically cancelled his mark of ownership over him, killed him, then thought to throw suspicion on Abbicott by dumping the body on him. Randy knew about Nicholas' affair with Abbicott, and thought he could make some money off his knowledge. Obviously, he was wrong."

"Well, what about one of Palmer's other boys?" Robbie recounted Hathaway's theory from the night before. Peterson still looked doubtful, but conceded it was a possibility and said he'd look into it.

"Is that everything then?"

Robbie searched his memory, wishing Hathaway was there to fill in the gaps. But he was pretty sure he'd been thorough. "No, that's it."

"Right. Off to do some proper detective work, then." _Rather than all this armchair theorising_ , he didn't say, but Robbie still felt the implication. Peterson swept up the files into a pile under an arm, but paused in the doorway before disappearing.

"One other thing, Lewis - I know you and Hathaway are banned from the premises for the next couple of days under pain of excommunication, but that doesn't apply to the rest of your team, does it?"

"You want to borrow DC Lockhart and Gurdip?" Robbie frowned in hesitation. They'd had just as hard a week as anyone, and deserved to have today off as much as he or Hathaway did.

"There's still a mountain of evidence to pore through from the second killing, and both Julie and Gurdip are familiar with the case. Besides, my team are still clearing up after last week's mess."

Robbie sighed, unable to refuse the justice of the request. "All right, I'll ring them and ask them to report back."

At least Peterson had the good grace to look a mite embarrassed. "I, er, already did. They'll be joining my team for our morning briefing." He forestalled Robbie's appalled  _well, you didn't waste any time!_ with a hearty clap on the shoulder. "Much obliged, Lewis. I'll be sure to mention your exemplary display of interdepartmental cooperation to Jean at our next meeting." He scuttled away before Robbie could raise an objection, which was just as well, because Robbie probably shouldn't be going around making scenes while the residue of this morning's foul mood still clung to him.

Besides, he had another, far more pressing issue on his mind. It was half past nine. James had been gone for more than an hour.

Robbie carefully wheeled James' chair back to its rightful place, all the while wondering:

Where the devil had the lad got to?

 

* * *

" _How could you? How_ could _you_!"

James wanted to take those hateful words and hurl them at Lewis. He'd already made it clear last night that he had absolutely no desire to see his father, today or any day. Lewis must have looked his father up in the database, and asked him down here, in the hope of bringing about a reconciliation or some such sentimental nonsense.

 _He had no right_ , James thought angrily, slamming his hands against the steering wheel. The car wobbled slightly out of lane and he straightened it impatiently. _He had no right to interfere._ James was an adult now, and had every right to keep his abusive father out of his life. He'd told Lewis, hadn't he, that not everyone had had the luck to have someone like him for a father?

For a moment he allowed himself to indulge in that fantasy, imagining Robbie's kindly eyes gazing down at him, nodding understandingly as a young James poured out his woes...

No. He had to stop himself thinking like that. He had to hold on to his anger, and use that to block out the memories released by the sight of his father...

_His father, grabbing his arm as James tried to squirm away from the business end of his whip..._

No! He tried to repress them, the way he had for the past twenty-odd years, to cage them in the darkest corner of his memory palace, but they surged out against his will, assaulting his mind's eye with wave after tidal wave of images that knocked the very breath out of his body:

_His mother, lying on the floor of the shed, eyes wide and staring as he begged her to wake up..._

_Scarlett, tossing a coin into the fountain then turning to whisper her wish into his ear; him listening and wondering whether opposite wishes cancelled each other out, or whether she would simply get her way, just as the Mortmaignes always got their way..._

_Twelve-year-old James, shivering in the wintry air outside the door while the argument raged within, the shouting voice of his father drowning out the pleading of his mother..._

_The Marquess, smiling as he produced a photograph from his pocket, telling James it marked their own secret place..._

_James, six months earlier, lowering himself onto the prie-dieu of the confessional, his high-pitched voice wobbling as he recited, "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned..."_

_Augustus Mortmaigne again, shushing him when the voices of the seekers filtered through the chimney to their hiding spot above, promising a distraught James that he'd show him a game infinitely more fun than childish hide and seek..._

And finally, the beautiful but careworn face of his mother, reading to him with her soft, lilting voice as he lay in his bed at Lodge Farm, the sheets tucked up to his chin: " _...Nicholas stayed in the houses of prominent Catholic families under the guise of carrying out repairs to the house by day, while working on the priest-holes by night..._ "

James drew a ragged breath. He'd finally come back to where it all started.

Nicholas Owen.

* * *

"Hathaway still not back yet?" Robbie asked the desk sergeant.

"No, sir. I'm sorry about earlier, sir...I'd no notion that man was Sergeant Hathaway's father, or that he was going to attack him like that. He just asked for Hathaway and when I said he wouldn't be in till eight, he just said he'd wait."

"Not your fault, Sergeant. I don't think any of us predicted this would happen," Robbie reassured him. "I don't think we need to go mentioning this to anyone else, though."

"Of course not, sir. I know when to keep my trap shut."

Robbie tipped a grateful nod to him, then headed towards the interview rooms, debating with himself. Should he ring Hathaway and order him to return? He decided to have a word with James' father first, and with the two PCs who were guarding him. The sooner he got to everyone who'd witnessed the altercation, the less likely for gossip to spread to the rest of the station.

The two PCs greeted him with a relieved "Sir" when he entered the room.

"He been giving you any trouble?"

The more senior of the two replied. "A bit of shouting at first, sir, but he's sobered up now."

"Sort of subsided into a sullen silence, like," added his junior counterpart.

"Right. Thanks for keeping an eye. I'll talk to him alone."

The PCs glanced nervously at Hathaway Senior. "You sure you'll be all right with him, sir?"

"Yeah, don't worry. And don't tell a soul about what happened this morning, eh?"

They promised their discretion and left. Robbie turned to the man sitting stiffly at the table, eyeing him with displeasure.

"Mr Hathaway, I presume."

"Colour Sergeant Michael Hathaway, 2nd Paras, retired," the man snapped.

So James' father had been in the Army. Robbie might have guessed from the man's military bearing. "Detective Inspector Robbie Lewis. Your son is my sergeant."

"So you're the one who wound up saddled with him, are you?" Mr Hathaway growled.

"I would hardly say 'saddled'," Robbie retorted. "James is a brilliant detective."

Hathaway's father pointedly refused to reply. Robbie sighed. He took a seat, pulled a charge sheet from the drawer, and began filling it out.

"What're you charging me with now? Another ASBO?" Mr Hathaway sneered. Apparently his pride in his army record didn't translate into shame at acquiring another one.

"Assaulting a police officer," Robbie said abruptly.

Mr Hathaway's jaw dropped. "He's my son!"

Robbie slammed the pen down on the table. "Perhaps I ought to have you for child abuse, then!"

"He's not a child!"

"And I suppose you're going to tell me you didn't do exactly this to him, when he was a child?" Robbie was seething, barely controlling his anger. Of all the things he'd seen, child abuse was still the one that got him in the gut, every single time. And for it to have happened to _James_ was nothing short of a travesty.

"Maybe, when I was drunk. But I didn't do nothing he didn't deserve!" Mr Hathaway shouted.

"What did James ever do to deserve _that_?" Robbie shouted back.

"What did James do." Mr Hathaway snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. "Didn't he tell you, then? He killed his mum! _You_ tell me that he didn't deserve every thrashing I ever gave him!"

* * *

James drove faster and faster, as if by outpacing his memories he could somehow escape them. But they pursued him relentlessly all the way to...

_Dorset?_

The welcome sign quickly receded into the distance, but he knew what he'd read. How had he wound up all the way down here? He'd not been paying attention to the road, letting his subconscious navigate. Perhaps it had simply recapitulated the drive yesterday morning, when he'd also started out furious at Lewis and wound up lost in his memories.

But yesterday he'd had Lewis to rescue him from drowning in them. Today he had to extricate himself, and he knew of only one way to do that: bury himself in work. Solve the mystery.

This time, he had the key. Nicholas Owen. He set his mind to work joining the dots, and suddenly the whole picture was before him, clear as the waves lapping the Dorset beach below as the car squealed around the final corner before the road on which Palmer's beach house lay. The evidence all pointed at one person. In a way, he'd always known who the killer was, he realised. He'd known it from the moment he'd seen him.

But he still needed proof, or else no one would believe him, just as they hadn't believed him when he was a kid. He had the who, the what, the when, and maybe even the why. But he still needed the where.

Gravel crunched under the tyres as he pulled up in front of the house. He ran to the door, keyed in the code, and began to search.

* * *

Robbie stared at Hathaway Senior in disbelief. "James killed his mum? She committed suicide, he told me."

"Aye, and did you ever ask him why?"

"He was just a child at the time!"

"He made up some cock-and-bull story about his Lordship... _touching_ him inappropriately. Oh, it was worse than that. His mum wanted us to leave straight away. I tried to reason with her, argue with her, but I could never say no to her, not when she was crying her eyes out like that. So we left Crevecoeur, left the best job I ever had. I could only get odd jobs in stables and things afterwards. But leaving didn't make things any better for her. She couldn't take the shame of it, she kept obsessing over it, imagining what that wretched boy had gone through, worrying that he was going to hell for it. And one day she couldn't take it any more and she took my shotgun and went to the shed and shot herself, just like that, without any regard to the fate of her own soul. Tell me that wasn't James' fault!"

Robbie stared in horror at the impassioned man. Mr Hathaway, if he was anything like James, would be a taciturn man at the best of times, but now he was spewing his hate-filled words out in a torrent. When he thought of James – the poor lad might have thought himself responsible, too, would have believed his father when he had declared, in his crazed grief at the death of his wife, that it had been his fault, that Augustus Mortmaigne had never touched him, that he deserved to be beaten for making up such a lie. And so he'd repressed his memories of the incident, so deeply that he'd had managed to make it through the whole Crevecoeur investigation without ever recovering them, even when he'd come face to face with his abuser and learned the truth about all those other kids who'd been abused.

"It wasn't his fault," Robbie said, striving to make his voice stop shaking. "It wasn't James' fault. Mortmaigne really did do all that. Didn't you read about his conviction in the papers, three years ago?"

"I didn't hear about that till last night. I suppose that was all James' handiwork, too! Now that he's a copper he thinks he can just make things up and bring down one of the noblest families in the land!" Mr Hathaway slammed the table with a fist.

Robbie shook his head. If only things had been the other way around. If James' father had believed him and his mother hadn't, his life would have turned out very differently. But it was clear that his father had been in too much awe of the marquess to believe that the great man, who had given him a wonderful job full of responsibility, could do such harm to an innocent.

It was time to disabuse him of that notion.

"Three years ago, Augustus Mortmaigne was convicted in a court of law of sexually abusing a number of kids off the Crevecoeur estate. Briony Grahame, Sally and Molly Danvers, Paul Hopkiss..."

"Hopkiss? You mean that stuttering boy of the butler's?"

"Yes, he adored Mortmaigne and even he had to admit the truth. Augustus Mortmaigne had taken him down to the summer house for piano lessons, and he took advantage of him there."

"James never took no piano lessons from the Marquess," Mr Hathaway objected.

Robbie had seen this before. The man was in denial and would cling to any scrap of counter-evidence he could to keep his worldview intact.

"Then it must have happened somewhere else. Don't you see, James told you the truth! His mother believed him, because she knew him for what he was, a sensitive, clever boy who was horrified by what an adult had done to him, who'd turned to the adults he trusted to love and protect him, his own parents! And when his mam died, when he needed you most, you turned on him and beat him for it!"

Mr Hathaway stared back at him. "You mean...all that...it wasn't just James making up stories? You mean his Lordship really was guilty of all that?" he said slowly.

"James didn't even testify against Mortmaigne! It was the rest of the kids off the estate – most of them are adults now – who testified against him. While James has kept all that abuse bottled up within him and it's been eating him up from the inside out, all because you made him believe that it never happened!"

"But...but..." Mr Hathaway floundered.

Robbie stared at the man before him in disgust. It was because of this man's subservience to authority that James had been so hurt, and that wound had shaped his whole life. Head boy, scholar, Cambridge man, rowing blue, priest, policeman – this man was the reason James had worked so hard to turn himself into an earnest, devout adult whose word would someday be trusted. And still his father wouldn't give him the credit he deserved.

"How long, Mr Hathaway?" Robbie spat out. "Did the beatings really only begin after your wife died? Or were you just abusive from the start?"

"I wasn't, I swear. I didn't really start putting away until after my wife died. She...she was everything to me."

And then it hit Robbie. James' father had taken up drinking to ease the grief of his wife's death, just as he had. They'd drunk and drunk and tried to forget. Michael Hathaway had turned violent. Robbie hadn't, but was that really up to him? What made one man a violent drunk and another not?

There but for the grace of God, he thought, only it wasn't the grace of God, was it? It was just individual physiologies and psychologies, and if the grace of God should have shone down on anyone, it should have been James, who'd believed with all his heart, and who had been let down by every single person who'd had authority over him and should have cared for him.

He glanced at his watch. Half past ten. Time to bring James home.

* * *

James ducked into the shadow cast by the changing room and lit a cigarette, puffing away in frustration. Overhead, the seagulls wheeled and shrieked, their loud calls seeming to mock his failure. He'd always thought himself good at finding things, but not this time. But just because his search had been unsuccessful, didn't mean he was wrong. He leaned his head against the garishly-painted wood, and thought.

He should call for back-up. There was only so much he could do alone. SOCO might help. He'd have to convince DCI Larimer that it was worth the effort, but he could put together enough circumstantial evidence to make his case. And if he couldn't convince her, Lewis would.

But it would be better if he could give them an indication of where to search. The house itself seemed a dead end. It was perched on a cliff, with solid bedrock under its foundation, so no possibility of a hidden basement. And the walls, made of modern building materials as opposed to the thick stonework of Crevecoeur Hall, were too thin to fit even a cat. And yet the priest-hole had to be big enough to have sustained Nicholas Pelgrin for several weeks.

But if not the house, where?

James levered himself off the changing room wall and turned to inspect its possibilities. He swung the door open and switched on the lamp. It was tiny, just big enough for a person to stand in. There was no way Nicholas Pelgrin could have been in here for months without Palmer finding him.

Unless...

James stomped on a floorboard. While it didn't ring hollow, it flexed an ever so tiny amount. Poor workmanship, or a clue?

A familiar jolt of adrenaline rushed through him, and he threw himself into the search. He tapped on every square centimetre of wood. He tugged at the hooks embedded in the walls in every possible combination. No luck.

He stopped and tried to think like the man who'd built it.

If he'd built a hiding place with this public an entrance, and didn't want anyone accidentally stumbling on it, what would he do?

For starters, he might try making it open only when the light was off. He pulled at the string and tried again. This time, when he pulled at all three hooks at once, the floorboards swung silently open to reveal a dark abyss.

The Hallelujah Chorus began to play. It was only after a few seconds that he realised it was in his pocket, not in his head.

"Sir?" The stupid gulls were so loud he had to plug his other ear to hear. "Sorry, sir, I didn't catch that. But more importantly, sir – I've solved the case."

And then he froze in horror as a breath ghosted across the nape of his neck and a smooth voice whispered, "Well, well. Who's a clever boy then?"

Before James could move, before he could say another word, a pair of strong hands had given him a firm shove, and he was plunging, plunging, into the inky darkness below, a single thought hammering in his head:

Not _again._

* * *

"James? James?" Robbie cancelled the call and dialled again. This time it carried on ringing until it went to voicemail. "Dammit, James, answer the bloody phone!"

Mr Hathaway half-rose from his seat. "What's going on? What happened?"

Robbie didn't have time to deal with the man right now. He dismissed him with a brief "I'm not pressing charges, you're free to go", and ran out of the interview room and upstairs to his office. He skidded to a stop at the bull-pen to take in the welcome sight of Julie working at her desk. He'd half-forgotten that Peterson had asked her to come in today - and for the first time in his life, he gave thanks for the existence of Action Man. "Julie, get me a trace on Hathaway's mobile, now."

Julie's mouth widened to an 'O', but she didn't waste any time asking for reasons. She picked up the phone and began speaking rapidly into it. Robbie went into his office and picked up the phone too, only to realise that Mr Hathaway had followed him.

"What are you doing here?"

"What's happened to James?"

"I don't know. Please, just – go away."

Instead of leaving, Mr Hathaway looked around at the office, which must be so foreign to his experience. His gaze landed on the whiteboard, covered with a mixture of their handwriting. "Why's Nicholas Owen on your board?"

"Nicholas Owen Pelgrin, he's the victim in the case we were working on," Robbie said impatiently. He had a search to organise, and he didn't need civilians getting in the way, not even James' father. _Especially_ James' alcoholic and abusive father. "Look, would you mind leaving? Like I said, I don't think James will want to press charges, and..."

"It was James' favourite story."

That got Robbie's attention. He replaced the receiver on the phone, and Michael Hathaway continued.

"Nicholas Owen. My wife used to read to James about him, from the _Lives of the Saints_. Nicholas Owen was a Catholic who built 'priest-holes' during the persecution of the Catholics in the time of Queen Elizabeth I. It was forbidden to celebrate Catholic Mass at the time, but many families still did, in secret. If the authorities came knocking when a priest was at a house celebrating Mass, he'd hole up in one of these hiding places while they searched for him. Nicholas Owen's priest-holes were so cleverly constructed it's thought many of them have never been found, to this day.

"James was convinced that there was a priest-hole at Crevecoeur, the Mortmaignes being Catholic and Nicholas Owen being from Oxford – he might have been familiar with the family, you see. James enlisted the other kids in a quest to find it and they were always underfoot. Searching in the house, in all the old sheds..."

"Priest-holes. Richard Pelgrin is an architect. If Pelgrin was in love enough with this story to give his son the name of his hero, maybe he's been actually following in his hero's footsteps and building hiding places into the houses he's been constructing...Julie!"

"Yes, sir?" she responded promptly.

"Get Gurdip to check to see who built Terry Palmer's beach house in Dorset, would you? The address should be on file."

Innocent suddenly appeared in the doorway, and from the look on her face Robbie knew that Peterson had snitched. "Lewis, how is that it's taken almost three hours for me to be informed of an assault on one of my officers? Oh." She looked Michael Hathaway up and down. "Is this Hathaway's..." Then she noticed Robbie's expression. "Is there something _else_ I should know about, Lewis?"

"It's Hathaway, ma'am. I just got a call from his mobile. He said something about having solved the case, and then I heard a loud crash and the call cut off abruptly. I tried ringing again, but it went to voicemail. Julie's trying to get a trace on it now."

"No luck, sir," Julie reported. "The phone's off. I've requested the records from the past hour, but it'll take a while."

"Any idea where he might be?" Innocent asked.

"I think he may have gone to Terry Palmer's beach house in Dorset. I thought I heard waves and the cry of a seagull in the background at the beginning of the call."

Innocent frowned. "Why on earth is he in Dorset? Did it sound like he was being attacked?"

"I don't know. Went to follow up a clue?" Robbie suggested. "And...I couldn't tell what kind of crash it was." He berated himself for reflexively holding the phone away from his ear when he'd heard it. He might have missed a valuable clue to James' fate.

"But it can't be Palmer. He's in custody in Dorset, and so are his boys. And Abbicott's under arrest here. That only leaves..."

"Richard Pelgrin," Robbie said grimly.

"His own father!" Innocent looked appalled for a moment, but pulled herself together quickly. "He was supposed to go see Maddie today. I'll call her and see if he's with her." She strode over to Hathaway's desk and used his phone. "Maddie? Jean Innocent. Is Richard Pelgrin with you? Oh, he left half an hour ago. Listen, Sergeant Hathaway's disappeared, and we suspect Pelgrin to have something to do with it. See if you can put a trace on his phone, will you? And tell your officers to be on the look-out for Hathaway's car. Lewis, the licence plate number?"

Robbie reeled it off and Innocent transmitted it to Larimer.

"And get down to the Palmer house and see if you can find anything, will you? We think he may be there. Thanks. Keep in touch."

Gurdip knocked on the door just as Innocent hung up the phone. "According to the building records, Palmer's beach house was built by a company called Invictus," he reported.

Robbie's heart stopped for a moment. "Not Pelgrin Properties?"

"On the surface, no. But I took a look at their website. They were pretty sloppy about disguising it. It's the same template as Pelgrin Properties', _and_ they forgot to change one of the fax numbers. Invictus is a front for Pelgrin, sir. I'm 99% sure of it."

"Which means that the builder of the Dorset house was Pelgrin. He must have kept his own son prisoner in that house for months."

"But Palmer was intermittently there during those months," Innocent objected. "How could he not have known about Nicholas being there?"

"Because while Pelgrin was building the house, he added a little bolt-hole for himself, a secret room that Palmer didn't know was there," Robbie said grimly. "Palmer was looking desperately for his 'son', and all the while Nicholas Pelgrin was in his own house. They might have been mere yards apart at some point."

"Get down there, Lewis," Innocent ordered. "I'll update Maddie with the new information and get her to send an army of PCs to crawl all over the place."

"Thanks, ma'am. On my way."

"I'm coming too," James' father cut in.

Robbie tensed in exasperation. "Mr Hathaway, we're trying to save your son. The last thing we need to be worrying about is family liaison. We'll keep you updated, I promise."

"I don't need bloody family liaison. I'm going to help." At Robbie's look of doubt, Mr Hathaway added, "I was stationed in Northern Ireland before James was born. I was in the bomb squad, we often conducted searches of IRA houses for explosives. I know how to look for things that are hidden."

Robbie stared at him for a moment. Michael Hathaway didn't look too frantic about his son. Was it the coolness of a soldier under fire? Or did he simply not care all that much?

"Please," Mr Hathaway said, with the grudging voice of a man unaccustomed to pleading. "If you're right, I've done wrong by my son all his life. I want to help him now, if I can."

Robbie could hear the sincerity in the man's tone. He nodded his permission. "Come on, then. We haven't a moment to lose."

* * *

James blinked his eyes open blearily and was immediately met with the harsh glare of a fluorescent light. He groaned. His head ached. His ankle ached. His shoulder ached. He lifted his arm to shield his eyes. It didn't respond to his command, and James reluctantly forced himself to lift his head and focus.

His heart began to hammer as the reason for his arm's disobedience immediately became clear. His wrists were encased in bands of metal, which were in turn chained to some kind of mechanism, which rode on two smooth, metallic tracks that extended from the rough cement floor up the rough cement walls to the rough cement ceiling.

James was a prisoner, in Nicholas Pelgrin's final abode. He could almost taste the fear and desperation that lingered still in the close air. A thread of hysteria threatened to weave itself among the already-frayed seams of his psyche, and he bit his lip to stop the rising panic. He couldn't give in to fear. He had to find a way out.

James sat up and investigated his surroundings more thoroughly, his gaze travelling first to the wall on his right. And he'd thought Terry Palmer owned a lot of BDSM equipment. Perhaps it was the fear infecting his imagination, but somehow the paraphernalia piled up against this wall seemed larger, more menacing.

And used. Nearest him was a wooden box, almost within reach. It had a neck-sized hole cut in the top that left James in no doubt as to how the box was meant to be used. But what sickened him was the wild, deep scratch-marks etched into the sides. As if it hadn't been enough to keep Nicholas in this confined space. He had to look away.

On the wall directly ahead was a blank television screen. Beneath it was a low table, on which sat two framed photographs. One, a picture of Nicholas Pelgrin sitting on the beach, squinting against the sun. It had to be the photo Chang had noticed missing from upstairs. The other, the picture of a grinning Randy Daniels standing next to Richard Pelgrin. The missing photo from Tony Daniels' room at the nursing home.

And in between the two was propped James' own warrant card, the photograph of himself staring back at him unsmilingly.

That was the straw that broke his resolve. "Let me out. Let me out!" he shouted, tugging desperately at the manacles. But they afforded him only enough movement to rotate his wrists, and not enough to slip out. The image of Anton standing in the wall recess at Terry Palmer's house flashed into his mind, and he twisted his wrists the way Anton had shown him.

Nothing. The cuffs remained very much in place.

" _Not_ that kind of handcuff, I'm afraid."

James craned his neck upwards. Richard Pelgrin grinned down at him, or perhaps "bared his teeth" would have been a better description. James felt something within him recoil at the sight. He fought down the bile in his throat. He had no doubt that if no one found him, he would wind up just like Nicholas.

"You're under arrest," he said. His voice came out sounding thick, and raspy, and not at all convincing.

Pelgrin's laughter sounded every bit as cruel and sinister as the laughter that haunted James' nightmares. "You're hardly in any position to be arresting anybody right now, are you, Detective Sergeant Hathaway?"

He wasn't, but Lewis would be. His head protested against the effort, but James forced himself to think. He remembered receiving the call from Lewis. Had he heard what James had said? Lewis would figure out that he was here, surely, and find him.

"How long have I been out?" he asked.

"Long enough for me to... _misplace_ your car, shall we say. And to erase the tapes showing you entering the house. And to clean up the litter you left on the beach." He held up the filter of James' cigarette.

Oh God. Pelgrin meant business. He was going to keep James captive here and torture him to death. He would have no compunctions about killing a policeman, if he'd killed his very own son.

"It was extremely considerate of you to walk straight into my lair," Pelgrin continued. "I was beginning to think I'd have to kidnap you off the streets of Oxford, thanks to your interfering inspector."

James blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"

"After he informed us that you were injured in the act of arresting Clarence Abbicott yesterday, I saw my chance. I went round to your flat, thinking I might chloroform you and drag you down here. But just as I was about to act, who should show up but Inspector Lewis. And when I came back after an hour, the infernal man was still sitting outside your flat like some kind of grotesque guardian. I gave up for the night, since I had to be in Dorset early this morning."

So if Lewis hadn't turned up out of the blue last night, he might have been in Pelgrin's clutches for the last...how many hours? James automatically glanced at his watch, but it was gone, replaced with the handcuff.

"And yet here we are. My very own almost-priest, in my very own priest-hole."

 _How did he know I was going to be a_ – James swallowed the question, and asked another. "What priest-hole?"

"Has the knock addled your brains, boy? _This_." Pelgrin waved a hand at their surroundings.

"It wouldn't qualify as a priest-hole if it went undiscovered for a thousand years."

Pelgrin's eyes narrowed. James knew that he was playing with fire, but he couldn't let this one pass.

"A priest-hole has to be cunning," he went on. "It has to be reverse-engineered into a space that was never meant to exist."

Pelgrin's eyes flashed dangerously, and for a long moment, James thought that he was going to strike him. But the moment passed, and Pelgrin laughed aloud.

"I see you're a true fan of Nicholas Owen. Indeed, this particular project did not afford me the scope to accomplish my best work. It was to be a house built from scratch. But – I built it under metres of shifting sand, alone, without anyone noticing. I daresay it was as cunning a feat of engineering as any of Nicholas Owen's priest-holes."

"But it takes something more than that to qualify as a priest-hole, doesn't it?" James countered. "The purpose of a priest-hole is to protect. The purpose of your lair was to torture and murder your own son."

The grin on Pelgrin's face disappeared abruptly. "Fathers and sons," he muttered. He went over to the right wall and picked a long, thin, nasty-looking implement off a hook.

"D'you know what this is, James? Ah, I see that you do. After leaving Crevecoeur, your father worked at various stables in Oxfordshire. Whips like these would have been a tool of his trade, wouldn't they?"

Something twisted in James' gut. " _You're_ the one who sent my father." He'd been so sure, after last night's conversation, that it had been Lewis. He owed him an apology, for jumping to conclusions earlier.

But he was going to die before he'd ever see Lewis again or say he was sorry. He bit back the whimper that almost escaped him at the realisation.

"I wouldn't so much say 'sent', James. All I did was drop him a note advising him to take a look at Crevecoeur Hall, and give him a bit of money for the trip. Do you know, he really had no idea what had happened to his beloved Crevecoeur, these past three years? Probably out of his mind with drink when it was in all the papers."

Pelgrin's face twisted in a sneer. "But he went. Found the grand old estate all boarded up. His Lordship in prison, serving what would, at his age, amount to a life sentence. His son and heir rejecting the family legacy, running off with one of the help. His wife and daughter fled to France to escape their grief and the family's disgrace. And who was the cause of all that? Who had brought down the mighty Mortmaignes, his beloved masters? His own son." Pelgrin looked down at James with a benevolent smile. "Did you enjoy the reunion?"

"I preferred it when we were happily estranged," James said, with an effort at sardonicism. He took a deep breath. He wanted nothing more than for this conversation to be over, but he knew, for his own sake, that he had to keep Pelgrin talking. "But why did you do it? What possible benefit could you derive from the whole charade?"

"James, James, James," Pelgrin sighed. "How did you get this far in the police force with so little understanding of human nature? It was enough that you reminded me ever so slightly of my poor, dead son. But on top of that, you had to go and give me the cold shoulder the very first time we met. What kind of way is that to treat a grieving father? Not very civil of you, was it, James? Inspector Lewis made your excuses, but I'd already begun plotting how to give you a lesson in civility."

"For future reference, you could always put in a complaint at the desk," James told him. "Save you the trouble of the whole...dungeon thing."

"Not my way, James. Not my way. What I did instead was to find out everything I could about you. I'm very good at that, if you couldn't already tell." Pelgrin shot an all-knowing smile at James, and James fought the wave of violation that swept over him. That was exactly what Pelgrin intended him to feel, and James was damned if he was going to give him what he wanted.

"And what did you find out?"

"That you were the complete opposite of the impression I'd formed of you. Such a dear, sweet child you were. Politest boy in the world, according to the ex-wife of a professional acquaintance."

Christ. He'd talked to Will McEwan's mum. If he'd talked even to her, who else had he talked to?

"So I began to wonder if there wasn't something more behind that slight. If you'd perhaps instinctively recognised the truth. You confirmed it by giving me the brush-off yesterday. By then, my boy, I knew you had to go. And when I found out about you and your father..." Pelgrin gave him a sorrowful look. "You resemble my son more than you know, James. And I suspect I resemble your father even more than I know."

To his surprise, James found himself bristling. "Don't you dare compare yourself to my father. You're nothing alike."

"Am I to understand, then, that your father never hit you with one of these?" He cracked the whip, and James cringed away at the sound.

"That was different. He was out of his mind with drink." And James was going to go out of his mind if this was going to continue much longer.

"How very Christ-like of you, James. Forgive him, Father, for he knew not what he was doing. _Have_ you forgiven him?"

James looked away. "No," he admitted.

"Another point of similarity, then. Nicholas never forgave me, either. Until the very end, he refused to acknowledge me as his father."

James saw his chance to deflect the subject of the conversation away from himself. "But you were hoping he would. You didn't mean to kill him. You were going to keep him here forever if you had to. But he managed to escape. You chased him out there and suffocated him to death on the beach."

Pelgrin's gaze narrowed, and for a long moment, James felt like a fly under Augustus Mortmaigne's magnifying glass. "And how, pray tell, did you work that out?"

"Why kill him up on the beach when it'd mean dragging the body back down here to be cleaned up again? It's not like you haven't even more inventive means of asphyxiation down here." James nodded towards the right-hand wall.

"An excellent deduction. But if you're hoping to escape the same way, I might as well dash your hopes now. It was a momentary weakness, a fatherly feeling towards my son, that persuaded me to let him free from the chains for a few minutes. He repaid me by running away."

"You mean he paid with his life."

Pelgrin shrugged. "Either way, I never make the same mistake twice." He went over to the keypad by the screen and pressed four digits.

There was a loud clunk, followed by the whir of machinery. The mechanisms that James' cuffs were attached to suddenly seemed to take on a life of their own, silently travelling along their tracks, up the wall.

"What the hell are you doing?" James asked, panicking as the chains began to pull taut, pulling him upwards. At first, it was enough to stand, but once the mechanism reached the ceiling, he was inexorably lifted off his feet and left dangling. His wrists protested as the cuffs dug into his skin, and his toes scrabbled for purchase, but it was no use. He was helpless, completely and utterly.

An image floated into his mind, a facsimile of the engraving in his copy of the _Lives of the Saints_ that depicted Nicholas Owen's torture on the rack of the Tower of London. This devious mechanism of Pelgrin's was nothing more than a sleek, modernised version of that medieval barbarity. Pelgrin had been determined to make his son share his namesake's fate.

Pelgrin pressed four more digits and the mechanism ground to a halt.

"What we're doing is playing a little game, James. You tell me everything you've worked out about the case, and I'll tell you whether you were right or wrong."

"What does it matter what I've deduced? You aren't going to let me go if I'm right," James said bitterly.

"Regrettably, you are correct. But every time you get something _wrong_...there will be a penalty." Pelgrin cocked an eyebrow when James remained silent. "Aren't you going to ask me what it is?"

"I don't intend to get anything wrong."

This cued yet more insincere mirth from Pelgrin. "We'll see about that." He raised the whip to James' eye level. There were flecks of blood on its tail. Nicholas' blood. His son's blood. The bastard hadn't even bothered to clean it. He'd thought all along that he'd get away with it.

"You can't hit me with that. That's evidence," James said, throwing every ounce of energy he had into controlling the tremor in his voice.

"You're a regular comedian, James. You know damned well no one's ever going to find this place."

" _I_ found it. And Lewis is far cleverer than I am."

"What, your northern yokel of an inspector?" Pelgrin sneered as he circled around James. "The man's a buffoon. The night we went to identify Nicholas' body, he offered to find me 'a place to stay' as if I was some kind of homeless vagrant. Me!"

Heat swelled within James at the injustice of the accusation. "Lewis' only mistake was to imagine you capable of the ordinary grief any father would be feeling at the death of his son," he snapped.

He realised he'd crossed a line when he heard the crack. Shirt and skin tore, and pain erupted from the gash in his back, radiated through his body, and escaped through his throat.

He regretted it the moment he heard himself gasp. Showing weakness to a bully would only encourage them. He'd learned that years ago.

A second lash quickly followed the first, compounding the agony. But this time he bit his lips shut, so that all that leaked out was a tear from the corner of his eye.

He was out of practice. Years ago, it would have taken ten strokes, at least, to get him to this point. He ought to have kept his hand in, as he'd always vaguely thought he should.

In desperation, he resorted to an ancient coping strategy – _think of Aunt Mary, bedridden in the next room; mustn't let her hear_ – but she'd been gone too many years for that to be convincing, and by the time the fifth lash landed, he'd fallen back to pleading for a saviour.

_Please, sir. Please come soon._

* * *

Robbie had been dreading this ride to Dorset even more than the first. Two hours in a car with James' abusive father, all while fretting over James' current fate, seemed designed to make the time crawl by. But somehow, having stolid, unimaginative ex-Colour Sergeant Hathaway sitting stiffly next to him seemed to curb the excesses of his own imagination, allowing him to focus on the task at hand.

"So did James ever find it?" Robbie asked, once they were underway. "The priest-hole at Crevecoeur, I mean?"

"No. The other kids lost interest after a while. I know James kept at it, until one day when he just stopped talking about it altogether."

Robbie frowned. "From what I know of James, he isn't the type to lose interest in a challenge."

Mr Hathaway glanced over at him. "Tell me about James," he said abruptly. "What...what's he like?"

So Robbie told him. About times when James' incredible intellect had unearthed some obscure fact that proved crucial keys to solving a case. About times when James had worked through the night, putting together clues that pointed to a murderer. About times when James had leapt to the rescue of an innocent, putting his own life on the line. His father listened silently, his long fingers raking at the knees of his trousers.

When Robbie finally stopped, his throat parched from talking so long, Mr Hathaway said, "So you're telling me that he's a son to be proud of."

"I know I would be," Robbie said.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a rueful smile tug at his companion's lip.

"He's grown since the last time I saw him."

 _Christ, how long has James been without a father?_ "When was that?" Robbie asked.

"When he left for his last year of boarding school. That's when he told me he wasn't coming back. He was applying to uni and said he'd shift for himself during his holidays. Can't even remember what I said to that. Probably 'good riddance'." James' father lapsed into silence, and Robbie could see enough self-reproach in his expression to know not to heap on any of his own. He let Mr Hathaway stew in his own thoughts the rest of the way.

Maddie came out of the house as they joined the crowded driveway in front of Palmer's beach house. "Robbie. You're here at last."

"Found anything?" Robbie asked, although he already knew the answer from the crinkles of frustration on her face.

"Not a thing. We've been going over the house plans registered with Building Control, trying to figure out where there might be a hidden compartment, or room. Robbie, there's nothing."

"There has to be something. I'm sure he's here, and that Nicholas Pelgrin was here before him. Mind if we take a look?"

"Of course not. But who's this?" Maddie asked, eyebrows arched towards Mr Hathaway. She'd noticed the familial resemblance.

"Hathaway's father, an expert at finding things," Robbie said tersely. "Let's take a look at those plans, shall we?" _And please_ , he prayed, to a god he didn't believe in, _please let us find him_.


	6. Chapter 6

Richard Pelgrin tapped the handle of his whip against his broad palm. "Well, James? I'm waiting."

James' chest heaved with breath after shuddering breath, every nerve still screaming from the lashes now criss-crossing his back. Finally the stinging eased enough that he could muster a response.

"You owe me a new shirt," he rasped out.

Pelgrin laughed as he pried a bloodied shred of cloth off James' shoulder and tossed it onto the floor, an overly familiar gesture that James was utterly powerless to prevent. "I really wouldn't bank on ever wearing a shirt again if I were you."

James shuddered at the air of promise in Pelgrin's voice, but then he'd rather set himself up for that one. He'd have to guard his tongue around Pelgrin's hair-trigger temper.

Though the alternative was apparently equally dangerous, as Pelgrin raised an eyebrow at his continued silence. "I asked you to tell me everything you know about this case, James. I'm not hearing any answers."

"If a whipping is the reward for telling the truth, I don't exactly have much incentive to start talking."

"Perhaps a repeat performance would serve as an encouragement?" Pelgrin offered.

"No!" James gasped. "No more."

Pelgrin cocked his head. "Magic word?"

James shut his eyes, and surrendered another scrap of his tattered dignity. "Please," he whispered.

Pelgrin nodded approvingly. He vanished beyond James' line of sight for a moment, then came back bearing a plastic folding chair. He placed it square in front of James. "Pray begin," he invited, crossing his legs and settling back into his seat.

"Can't you let me down first?" James asked plaintively. Now that the worst of the stinging was over, the strain in his shoulders was beginning to tug at his consciousness.

"Now, now," Pelgrin chided. "Think of Hammersmith Bridge, or Crabtree Reach. Bear it as you bore it then."

"At least in the Boat Race there's the prospect of a release," James snapped.

"Oh, you'll get your release, I promise you." Pelgrin smiled at him. "Now, I suggest you start talking."

James cast about for a starting point, and decided on the beginning of it all. "Nicholas wasn't your biological son."

Pelgrin's eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward hungrily. James automatically recoiled, but no pain came.

"Explain," Pelgrin ordered.

"We found a trace of DNA in Nicholas' system. It wasn't a familial match."

"I see. I thought I'd done a good job of removing all the evidence of that sort, but apparently your pathologist is very thorough."

James expected to be grilled on whether the DNA could possibly be used to identify him, but instead Pelgrin waved for him to continue, so James pressed on.

"Nicholas knew, didn't he? He was interested in genealogy, in genetics. Maybe he noticed something that didn't add up, that he was something that you and his mother could not possibly have given birth to."

Pelgrin snorted. "Nothing so ingenious. Just before he went up to Oxford, he came to talk to us, all excited, about some personal genetic testing he wanted us to do. All three of us. It would tell us everything from where our genetic ancestry lay, to whether we had wet or dry earwax. It seemed harmless enough to me, a few hundred pounds' expense – but his mother's reaction said otherwise."

"She refused to let you or Nicholas do the test."

Pelgrin nodded slowly. "After that, of course, I couldn't rest until the truth came out. I'd spent eighteen years of my life bringing up a _bastard_ as my own son. I had been a blind, cuckolded fool."

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air until Pelgrin continued. "Nicholas was mortified, of course, but at least he had an escape."

"To Oxford."

"While my wife and I had to come to terms with the truth in our own way."

James knew it was his duty to ask. "Was it really suicide?"

"Define suicide," Pelgrin said, his lip curling upwards, which was as much as James needed to know. Even if he hadn't killed her with his own two hands, he'd hounded her to death.

"And then Nicholas came back for his mother's funeral. He never suspected a thing, of course. She'd always been a bit hysterical, even at the best of times," Pelgrin went on. "Not that it mattered. Nicholas had already been corrupted by Oxford. He'd decided to go live with Terry Palmer as one of his – his _toyboys_."

"You decided you couldn't let that happen."

"Of course not! He wasn't my son, but he was still _my_ creation," Pelgrin growled. "I'd fed him, clothed him, educated him. I wasn't about to let him continue calling another man 'Daddy'. So I started to wonder: what was it Palmer was giving him that I hadn't given him?"

A queasy knot formed in James' stomach as he started to work out the endpoint of Pelgrin's twisted logic, but he refused to give voice to the words. He didn't have to. Pelgrin was still in full swing.

"They were playing at being father and son. I could have done that. I'd done it for eighteen years! Palmer beat him. I'd beaten him too. But Palmer fucked him, and I didn't. That was all I was missing! If I gave him that, he would return to me."

"That's not all that was missing," James said, appalled. "What about consent? What about love?"

" _Love_?" Pelgrin sneered, completely ignoring James' first point. "Are you telling me that Palmer _loved_ Nicholas?"

"He gave Nicholas a whole house for his birthday. Which gave you your opportunity. You found out about it, and you wormed your way somehow to the top of Palmer's shortlist of architects. Probably under a false name, though since it was meant to be a surprise, there was little chance of your being unmasked. You could take the risk."

"Correctly deduced, although I must take issue with your choice of words. 'Wormed'? My design rose to the top on the basis of merit alone. And do you know why?"

"Because...because you knew who it was meant for," James said slowly. "You designed it for Nicholas, for what he'd like."

"Exactly. Of course, I had to put in things Palmer would like too, like the pillars and the porticoes. But I could put those in because I knew he liked them. I rose to the top because I had the architect's most valuable asset. Knowledge! Information!" Pelgrin said triumphantly.

"Is that how you win all your commissions, then? By sneaking and spying?"

"The more I know about a prospective client, the more I can design a house to their desires." Pelgrin shrugged. "Is that so bad?"

"If it means invading their privacy, yes," James spat out. "How many of these so-called priest-holes have you built into people's houses so that you could spy on their friends in turn?"

"Ah, if only you could see them, James," Pelgrin said, smiling beatifically at him as he evaded the question. "I would love to have the opinion of a true connoisseur like you. But let us return to the subject at hand. I built this house for my son. I built this priest-hole for my son. And I watched from here as he embraced Terry Palmer, thanking him for the gift, even though it was _I_ who had designed every detail, just for him."

"While planning to kidnap him the first chance you got."

"Ah, but I didn't have to. Once again, Providence brought him to me. He'd seen something that angered him, and he came to confront me."

"A photograph of you and Randy Daniels. He realised that you'd slept with Randy Daniels, no doubt to find out more about Nicholas' doings."

"It was foolish to allow him to take that photograph," Pelgrin admitted. "But Randy promised that it would go straight to his father's room at that nursing home. I never thought that Nicholas would actually go visit that demented old codger, when he refused to even visit his own father."

James frowned. Something didn't add up. "You told Randy Daniels your real name, too, didn't you? Why?"

"Second thing anyone tells you when the topic of Randy Daniels comes up: he can't remember a name if his life depends upon it." Pelgrin shrugged. "And perhaps a part of me was hoping Nicholas would find out. If he could sleep around with whoever he chose, I could bloody well do it too, even with a friend of his. Of course, he didn't like it so much when the shoe was on the other foot."

"Randy Daniels was going to tell us about you," James said, ruing the missed opportunity when Randy had called the station instead of directly phoning Lewis. "He'd remembered something about you – probably that you'd seemed unusually curious about Nicholas. He wasn't certain. But once he found out that 'Johnny Palmer' was really Nicholas Pelgrin, it rang a bell. When he found your name written in his notes, he knew he had prime blackmail material."

"How fortunate for me that his greed exceeded his civic-mindedness."

"Hardly greed. Randy would have used the money to pay for his father's care. _He_ loved his father."

"And Nicholas hated his," Pelgrin replied. "But they both wound up equally dead."

 _Just as you will_ , James knew he was insinuating. "Do you really think you're going to get away with murdering a police officer?" he asked abruptly. "Lewis suspects you, I know he does. With both Palmer and Abbicott in custody, the only person left who's remotely involved in the case is you."

"Ah, but I'll have an unimpeachable alibi. Just as I do for both Nicholas' and Randy's deaths."

"We've had experience with unimpeachable alibis. The Queen herself could alibi you and Lewis would still go after you. He's that sort of man."

"Ah yes, let's see what sort of a man your Inspector Lewis is." Pelgrin took a remote control out of his pocket and the television flickered to life. A patchwork of views appeared on the screen, a hive of activity in every one.

A warm feeling that he dimly recognised as hope sprang in James' heart as he realised what he was seeing: a closed circuit feed from Palmer's beach house atop the cliff, which was crawling with police officers. "You see? They know I'm here. It's only a matter of time before they find us." He searched for a familiar thatch of hair, and found it. "Look – there's Lewis, in the upper right hand corner. And – my _father_?" James stared, not daring to believe his eyes. How had they gone from his father being detained for assault, as he must surely have been, to him cooperating with Lewis to find James? And yet as Pelgrin pulled that single screen into focus, there was no mistake. His father was there, helping to look for him.

A single, ancient, crystalline memory appeared in James' head: him burrowed deep into the heart of a hayrick, trying very hard not to sneeze as his father hunted for him, calling his name. Then his triumphant cry of "there you are!", and the shriek of giggles that followed, not all of them James'.

"Isn't that clever, he's brought measuring tapes. He's actually looking for a secret room." Pelgrin sounded amused, but James detected a note of worry in his voice. He pressed the advantage.

"If my father's there, then Lewis surely knows about Nicholas Owen."

"All the better for me, if he's hung up looking for a priest-hole within the house," Pelgrin replied, but he sounded like a man trying to talk himself out of his doubts and not succeeding.

Lewis and his father disappeared off the screen, and Pelgrin followed him, switching screens until they came to the dining room, where they seemed to be having a powwow with DCI Larimer and DS Chang. Pelgrin activated the sound, and Lewis' familiar northern accent filled James' ears.

_"I know he's here, Maddie. I can feel it. And I'm not going to stop until we find James."_

_"But we've looked everywhere, Lewis. There's not a hollow wall to be heard. And there's nothing in the plans to indicate that there's room for any sort of secret compartment. Besides, what about James' car? If he was here, it should be here. But it's not."_

His father's voice cut in.

_"If there's nothing in the house, then James must be outside it. Has anyone searched the beach?"_

_Yes!_ James shot a triumphant glance at Pelgrin, who was chewing his lip as he abruptly shut off the sound.

"Perhaps you are right, James. Perhaps I should be taking precautionary tactics." Pelgrin disappeared again before returning with a nondescript mobile phone and a gag.

"My apologies for this inconvenience, but I can't have you crying for help while I ring the police, after all," he said, with fake courtesy. James kept his mouth stubbornly shut, but the old stratagem of pinching his nose to force his mouth open did the trick. Once he was firmly gagged, Pelgrin made the call.

"Police? Yes, I'd like to report an accident on the coast road between Cliff and Banks Road. Looks like some poor soul's driven over the cliff. The car's in the water. No, I can't make out the number plate." Pelgrin flipped the phone closed. "That ought to give them something to think about."

The coast road between Cliff and Banks....that was the dangerous curve that he'd driven round on the way here, just two minutes away. Depending on the direction Pelgrin had driven the car off the road, they might think he'd never made it to the house. Lewis might even think he was dead. Except...

Pelgrin removed the gag, and James tried to scrape the taste of the rubber off his tongue. "It's not going to work," he said, once the urge to gag had passed.

"Why not?"

"My corpse won't be there."

"It was close to high tide when I pushed it over – another act of Providence. You tried to escape from the car, but got swept away. The tides in these parts are really treacherous, don't you know." Pelgrin grinned at him, then turned his attention back to the screen, unmuting the sound. "Any minute now, the call will come through."

Sure enough, just as Lewis and the others were about to walk out the door to the path that led down to the beach, Larimer's phone rang.

 _"Larimer. What's that? Have you confirmed it's Hathaway's? What about Hathaway? No?"_ Larimer glanced apprehensively towards Lewis. _"All right, I'll tell him."_ She ended the call.

 _"They've found Hathaway's car? Where is it?"_ Lewis asked urgently.

Larimer took a deep breath before replying. _"Lewis, it's bad news. They found Hathaway's car at the base of a cliff, nearby. It's smashed to pieces."_

 _Don't believe her!_ James wanted to yell at the screen, but he was arrested by the look on Robbie's face: the shock, the horror, and the grief.

 _This is what he looked like when he was told his wife was dead,_ James suddenly, incontrovertibly, knew. _This is how he felt._

But...about _him_? He had expected some measure of grief, certainly, would have been offended if none had been forthcoming, but he'd also expected the stoic grimness that Robbie had shown when his previous sergeant, Ali McLennan, had been bludgeoned to death. Not this raw emotion, etched into every line.

Finally the words reasserted themselves in his ears.

 _"Well, what are we waiting for?"_ his father asked. Of course, there was no such emotion in _his_ voice. _"Let's go!"_ He bodily dragged a still-shocked Lewis out of the door. The rest of the house emptied itself after them.

"There," Pelgrin said, in satisfaction, switching off the television.

The screen blinked out to a blank expanse of grey that seemed to mirror the desolation in James' own heart. Pelgrin pressed four digits on the keypad and the chains began to lower him, and James slumped to the concrete floor, his last hope gone.

* * *

Robbie shook his head numbly as he surveyed the wreckage of James' car from several tens of feet up. Down below, a SOCO team was scrambling over it, one of them relaying an initial report.

"There's no body," Larimer murmured next to him, putting down her mobile as if it were a brick. "But then, it's coming off high tide, he could easily have been swept away if the door was open like that."

"What...what are the chances?" Robbie's mouth was dry as he asked.

"Not good, I'm afraid. You wouldn't be able to tell now, but the high tides here are something savage." Larimer grimaced in sympathy. "I'm...deeply sorry, Robbie. He was a good man."

Robbie nodded tightly and turned away. He didn't want to hear it – not just yet. Maddie meant well, he knew, and probably knew better how he was feeling than just about anyone else in the world. But he couldn't handle the truth just now. Knowing that whenever they talked about James from now on, it would be in past tense...it was more than he could bear.

He stumbled back towards the car, and found James' father standing by it, staring inscrutably at the road.

"What are you doing?" Robbie asked, the urge for confrontation building up within him. How could James' father remain so emotionless at the loss of his son? It wasn't shock. He really didn't care. He'd never cared, which was why James had ended up like this...

"This is all wrong," Mr Hathaway said bluntly.

"Of course it's wrong! James is dead!" Robbie shouted.

"That's not what I'm saying." The man remained cool in the face of Robbie's anger. "I'm saying that this was staged. James' car was driven over the cliff deliberately. Look, he must have swung off just before the guardrail, since it's intact, right? Which is why no one noticed that there was a car down there for hours. But look at the angle. That can't have been done accidentally."

"It could have done if he was trying to swerve to avoid something at the last moment." _At the last moment, because I distracted him from the road by calling,_ Robbie added heavily to himself.

"Okay, let's say something was in his lane," Mr Hathaway said begrudgingly, obviously not buying his argument. "There wouldn't have been a car in the oncoming lane, otherwise we'd have heard of the accident sooner. Why wouldn't he just swerve right?"

Robbie stared at the evidence, reconstructing the scene from a more detached viewpoint. There were still more incongruities - incongruities he and Larimer should have seen, except that you'd need a clear head to see them, and therefore neither he nor Larimer had, in their sudden, swift horror. "And how did the caller find it there? You can't see the car from the road. You have to be standing on the edge, looking over the side. And why didn't the caller stay to meet us, and find out what happened?" It was still a short straw, but Robbie was ready to clutch at anything.

Mr Hathaway nodded, agreeing with his assessment. "It was all a ruse, meant to make us believe James is dead, and stop searching. I saw it many times in Northern Ireland. Always, just as we were getting close to finding something, we'd be called away by a phoned-in bomb threat. After a while, we learned to ignore it and keep on looking."

"Then what are we waiting for? We've got to go back!" Robbie opened the car door, but Mr Hathaway slammed it shut again.

"Yes, we will, but not through the front door, this time, and not with an army of policemen, either. This Pelgrin fellow knew we were there, he knew that we were about to stumble on something. Which means he's watching the house. There's probably a tripwire or something when cars pull in the driveway to alert him that someone's there." Mr Hathaway pointed towards the beach. "Now that the tide's gone down, we can skirt the cliff and access the beach from below. That's where we were going to search when the call came through, wasn't it?"

It took fifteen minutes of scrambling down the cliff, inching along a tiny sliver of dry sand while hugging the wall of white rock, sometimes having to give up dry land altogether and walk through the waves, but finally they were trudging through the debris field and up the beach.

"What's this?" James' father said immediately, going up to the most prominent structure there.

"A changing room," Robbie answered, but as he said it, he realised something that he should have realised a whole day ago. "Hold on a minute. Pelgrin keeps his charges naked at home. Why would he ever need a changing room?"

"Excellent question," Mr Hathaway replied, rolling up his sleeves.

* * *

"Come now, James," Pelgrin coaxed, a toothy smile on his face. "Don't look so dejected. I've devised many entertainments to help us pass the hours together. Watching Terry Palmer at work has given me some delightful ideas."

"What's entertainment for you is hardly entertaining for me," James replied tiredly. He was exhausted, physically and mentally. And he'd only been under Pelgrin's thumb for a few hours. How had Nicholas endured this for weeks on end? James would rather die now than remain at Pelgrin's mercy until he ceased to amuse.

"Such a pessimist," Pelgrin tutted. "If you're a good boy, there's no reason why we can't pass a very happy time together."

"I'm sure Nicholas was absolutely thrilled to stay," James muttered.

Pelgrin shrugged. "It was his choice."

James looked up. "What?"

"I'm hardly a monster, James," Pelgrin said, seemingly oblivious to the incongruity of his words to the situation. "You mentioned consent being a difference between Palmer and me. But Nicholas always had the option to leave this place. I would have taken him home, treated him well. Of course, he would never have been allowed to see Palmer again, or indeed leave the house without my permission, but it would have been a great deal more comfortable than this. The beatings – I would have stopped if he'd just said one word. His safeword."

James had a sinking feeling that he knew what it was.

"'Daddy'. One simple little word. That's all I needed to hear. Or 'Dad'. I would have accepted 'Father'." Pelgrin frowned, looking actually sorrowful. "But Nicholas was more stubborn than I gave him credit for."

"I think he would have said it, if you hadn't tried to force him," James said. He hadn't planned on revealing this particular line of reasoning. But now, he honestly didn't care if Pelgrin lost his temper and killed him. It was better than the alternative. A literal fate worse than death.

Pelgrin looked at him sharply. "What d'you mean?"

"I think he still considered you a father – until you did the most unfatherly thing possible, by trapping him here against his will."

"What are you talking about? He disavowed his association with me. He changed his name from the one I gave him. From my own name," Pelgrin said angrily.

James shook his head. "Not entirely. When he left Oxford, he changed his name to 'John Little'. When Nicholas Owen travelled around England, he often went under assumed names. One of them was 'Little John'. He still identified himself with your hero, the man you named him after."

Pelgrin licked his lips. "But what about Palmer? He accepted another man as his father and took his name as his own."

"Haven't you ever looked into what your own name means? Pelgrin, Pelegrine, Pilgrim? 'Pelgrin' is an alternative spelling of the name 'Peregrine', a pilgrim. And another word for 'pilgrim' is 'palmer'. Nicholas would certainly have known the significance of the names. I think it seemed like – _Providence_ – to him," James reasoned, throwing the word Pelgrin seemed to like so much back at him.

"A coincidence, nothing more," Pelgrin said dismissively. "So what if the names mean the same thing? You can't tell that Nicholas still loved me from just that."

"But when he left, he told you where he was going, didn't he? He braved your wrath to tell you, knowing that you wouldn't approve. He could have just left you wondering."

"Braving my wrath? More like rubbing my nose in it. He was gloating at my humiliation," Pelgrin spat out.

James thought of the gentleness that everyone who knew Johnny Palmer had talked of. "If you really think that, then you never really knew your son in the first place."

Pelgrin suddenly stood up, kicking the chair aside. James cringed away, but it slid into the wall beside him with a resounding crash. Pelgrin began to pace back and forth, muttering to himself, and after a while James had to close his eyes before he started feeling giddy on top of everything else.

Then Pelgrin stopped. James cracked an eye open. Pelgrin was holding a long metal rod, on the end of which was the shape of a palm tree.

"If what you say is true, then I have as much right to use this as Terry Palmer," Pelgrin said, a smile-like rictus glued to his face.

" _That_ was your conclusion from all of this?" James asked in despair. He'd been hoping for some soul-searching, for Pelgrin to awaken to his sins, not for it to give him more _ideas_.

But Pelgrin continued as if he hadn't even heard him. "I lost my son. But here you are, in his stead."

James looked back in alarm at Pelgrin's glassy-eyed stare. Had the realisation that he'd killed his son for nothing suddenly driven him out of his mind?

Pelgrin turned and rummaged among the heap of equipment leaning against the right wall. After a moment's digging, he emerged with a blowtorch. He flicked it on, and a jet of blue flame emerged. He held it to the tip of the branding iron.

James' brain could produce nothing more than a panicked stream of _oh God oh God oh God_.

"You have to admit that Leon Williams is quite the artist," Pelgrin remarked. "I understand that most tattoo artists who practise branding use metal wire or cautery pens. But he's stuck to the old ways, and revived a dead art. Just as I have with Nicholas Owen's priest-holes. A kindred spirit, you might say."

"I doubt that he'd say the same," James said, watching in horrified fascination as the end of the branding iron began to glow red. He had to find a way to snap Pelgrin out of this, or at the very least distract him from his task.

He groped for a question, an insult, anything that came to mind -

"Why did you suddenly restore the tapes yesterday afternoon?"

"Oh, that?" Pelgrin's finger came off the blowtorch trigger, and James sagged with relief when he saw the glow ebb away. "I was hoping to keep this place a secret rather than have you lot crawling all over it. But when I saw that Palmer was already implicated, I thought, why not have him arrested? If it went to a murder charge against him, all the better."

"So you never planned to frame him in the first place." No, of course not, James realised immediately. Pelgrin had planted Nicholas' body at Abbicott's. It was Abbicott whom Pelgrin had been trying to frame.

"No," Pelgrin said airily. "I had other plans for Palmer. After Nicholas, I was going to go after Anton Germain. And once I was done with Anton, I'd have kidnapped Kyran Tate."

So Terry Palmer had had good cause to be paranoid for their safety, when they'd first located him at that convention and told him about Nicholas' fate. Was it possible that that had been just two days ago? James felt like he'd lived out an entire lifetime in the interim.

"Why kidnap them? What good would it do?" he asked.

"Palmer took my son from me, so I'm taking his 'sons' from him." Pelgrin shrugged, as if he were merely solving a simple mathematical equation. He returned his attention to the blowtorch, saying casually, "And of course, I wouldn't have stopped there."

He must have gone mad. Where else was it humanly possible to go? James wondered.

"However much I pressed her, my wife never revealed the name of the man who fathered Nicholas. When you think about it, his was the original sin. He was the one who took my son away from me. But perhaps he had sons of his own. Sons with blond hair and blue eyes, like Nicholas. I could take them, and make them mine. Starting with you."

He took a step towards James. James scooted as far as he could backwards, but too soon felt the rough cement wall dig into his bare shoulders. The friction tore at the whip-wounds, but the pain was overridden by the imminent threat of sheer, burning agony, with no prospect of escape.

"Please," James began, his gaze transfixed by the red-hot glow of the brand.

"You should be honoured, James. The first to bear my mark!" There was real triumph in Pelgrin's voice. The footsteps drew ever nearer.

"Please," James tried again, but the words collided in his throat and refused to emerge.

"Where would you like it, James? Here?" The heat was real, now, radiating against his shoulder. "Or perhaps you'd prefer here?" The brand hovered over his arm.

It was a psychological ploy, James knew. Pelgrin was just toying with him to extract maximum amusement out of the situation. But intellectually understanding that it was just a sadistic trick didn't make his panic any less real.

 _It's just pain,_ he told himself. Other people bore it willingly, didn't they? It couldn't be so terrible. And pain would dim, and be forgotten.

But the memory would remain, forever seared into his flesh, a permanent reminder that his body was no longer his own.

The brand paused in its meandering, menacing path before James' eyes, the heat distorting the air around it, making shadows dance in the blackness of the stairs behind it. "Well, James? What do you say?" Pelgrin asked.

"Father, please!" he blurted out.

The words hung in the air for a moment, the shimmer of heat wavering.

"Did you just call me 'Father'?" Pelgrin asked, his voice surprised and gleeful.

Before James could answer, a third voice boomed out.

"He was calling for _me_!"

* * *

They'd been trying for ten minutes when some magic combination of tugging at hooks and knocking on walls opened up the floor of the changing room beneath them.

Michael Hathaway seemed ready to let loose a war-cry and charge into the fray, but Robbie put a cautionary hand on his shoulder and signalled for silence. It wouldn't do them any good if Pelgrin heard them calling and took James hostage – or worse. Mr Hathaway nodded impatiently and shrugged his hand off. They crept down the dark staircase, and peeked into the light.

Pelgrin was there, standing with his back to them. Robbie's heart gave a lurch when he saw James sitting on the floor behind him. James' face was blocked by Pelgrin's form, but Robbie could see the chains that bound James to the wall, and the red-hot tip of the branding iron that Pelgrin was threatening James with.

"Father, please!" It broke Robbie's heart to hear the terror in James' voice.

Completely oblivious to their presence behind him, Pelgrin asked, "Did you just call me 'Father'?" He sounded obscurely pleased. 

His pleasure didn't last long.

"He was calling for _me_!" James' father roared, launching into an attack.

 _No, don't!_  Robbie had been hoping to solve this peacefully, through negotiation. They held all the trumps - two against one, in a small, enclosed space. Yes, Pelgrin was armed and they weren't, but his branding iron would cool, and the blowtorch he held in his other hand would run out of fuel. There was no way he would be getting away with this, and Pelgrin would surely have to see sense and surrender. The worst thing they could do now was to pick a fight, with James a sitting duck well within Pelgrin's range.

But it was too late, for him and for James' father. The split second's warning had been enough. Pelgrin reacted with remarkable speed, spinning on his heel and slashing the branding iron in Mr Hathaway's direction.

Had it been a plain iron bar, Robbie suspected, the older Hathaway would have met the challenge and kept on going, but the heat of the branding iron was something else again. He skidded to a stop and made an ungraceful hop backwards, out of its swinging arc, and then another, almost colliding with Robbie in the process. Robbie was forced to scuttle out of his way.

Robbie cast an annoyed glance at Mr Hathaway, who stood coiled and ready, knees bent, arms up in a classic defensive stance. He didn't look too happy about the situation either. In fact, he looked puzzled, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Looking to his opponent, Robbie realised why. Pelgrin didn't have the desperate look of a man who knew the game was up, or even of a cornered wild beast. Instead there was a manic, gleeful glint to his eyes, a crazed look that hadn't been there in Innocent's office a day ago. Robbie instantly knew there would be no negotiation with this man. Something fundamental had snapped in Pelgrin's psyche, and it looked like they'd have to do this the Action Man way.

He reassessed their position. They had the advantage of numbers, but at the same time Robbie didn't want to bollocks things up by interfering with the older Hathaway's fight. The best he could do for now was to divide Pelgrin's attention, and moreover divert it away from James. But they were standing too close, near enough that Pelgrin could still treat them as a single target. So Robbie took another cautious step to the left. Pelgrin's eyes flickered towards him, registering the movement, then returned to Mr Hathaway. He was still the main threat.

But now Robbie had a line of sight to James, who hadn't said a word since their entrance. They locked eyes, and Robbie saw the mixture of relief and tension in James' face. But there was something else, a set to his jaw. The lad had a plan. James' gaze swept downwards, and Robbie saw it - James' hand, inching towards a folded chair that was lying by his side. But the chains on his wrists were a mite too short, and James ran the risk of jangling the chains and attracting Pelgrin's attention if he pushed any further. He sent an imploring glance Robbie's way.

Robbie nodded back to say that he'd take care of the distraction. "It's over, Pelgrin." The other two men paused their staring contest to glare at him as he spoke. "You know you won't be able to get away with this." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw James grimace, the cuff cutting into his skin as he reached past the limits of the chain.

"Maybe not," Pelgrin acknowledged. "But I'm still taking James with me!"

"Like hell you will!" Mr Hathaway yelled, but another swipe of Pelgrin's branding iron forced him to retreat another foot. Just as James' long, guitar-playing fingers curled around the aluminium tube.

"Father, here!" James sent the chair spinning over to his father. Mr Hathaway immediately grasped its utility. He grabbed it and wrenched it open just as Pelgrin darted forward. The edge of it caught Pelgrin on the inside of his right wrist. His fingers splayed out involuntarily, dropping the branding iron on the floor with a clatter of metal. Pelgrin swore as he lost his longer-range weapon, but there was no recovering it. Mr Hathaway was still driving forward with the chair, and Pelgrin had to make an almighty effort to get a grip on it and halt his momentum.

For a long moment, they stood stock-still except for the straining of their arms, two strong men accustomed to hard labour. But only one had been a trained soldier accustomed to fighting. Mr Hathaway gave the chair a sudden anti-clockwise wrench, throwing Pelgrin off balance and onto the floor. Mr Hathaway pounced on him in an instant.

Robbie decided to ignore Pelgrin's roar of rage and fear and let him fend for himself for a moment. He went over to James, and took him by his bare, thin shoulders.

James stared at him in stunned disbelief for a few more seconds, before it dawned on him that he was finally safe. All the tension left him in a single exhale, and he slumped forward till his head rested against Robbie's chest.

"There now, James, you're all right," Robbie soothed, putting an arm around the lad. James flinched at his touch, emitting a tiny whine of pain. Robbie looked down to see what was the matter, and exclaimed when he saw the lacerations on James' back. "Jesus Christ, James!"

"What?" Mr Hathaway asked instantly. "What happened?" When Robbie didn't reply quickly enough, he shook Pelgrin by the collar. "What the hell did you do to my son?" he demanded.

Pelgrin leered. "Oh, nothing worse than you've inflicted on him in the past, I'm sure."

Mr Hathaway recoiled as if he'd been spat at in the face. His grip on Pelgrin's collar weakened, and Pelgrin took the opportunity to plant a foot in his chest and heave him away.

Robbie started up as James' father tumbled into the jumble of BDSM equipment piled against the wall. Of all the times to have a crisis of conscience...Mr Hathaway was trying to get to his feet, but was stymied by the uncertain ground under him. Pelgrin rose over the body of his vanquished enemy, the blowtorch back in his hand. He flicked it on and turned towards Robbie and James, that infernal smile still plastered over his lips.

"No!" Robbie yelled. His shout was echoed by Mr Hathaway's voice, as they both sought to intercept Pelgrin before he got near James. Robbie drove into a rugby tackle, just as Mr Hathaway plucked a whip off the wall, snapped it around Pelgrin's feet, and pulled. Pelgrin fell backwards with a snarl of rage. The blowtorch went flying into the air. It spiralled in an elegant arc, then, before Robbie's horrified gaze, began descending towards James.

Robbie tried to make a dive for it, but he was still entangled in Pelgrin's limbs. He could only watch helplessly as the blowtorch bounced off James' left shoulder. James opened his mouth as if to scream. All that emerged was a grunt.

Robbie's first instinct was to run over to him, but he'd learnt his lesson. First restrain Pelgrin, then check on James. "Here - handcuffs." But Mr Hathaway gave a curt shake of his head to Robbie's offering, instead pulling a spare pair off the wall in a savage motion, and clicking them onto Pelgrin's resisting wrists. Poetic justice, Robbie supposed, to have Pelgrin fettered by his own tools of imprisonment.

Mr Hathaway found a length of rope and wound it around Pelgrin's ankles, drawing them perhaps a bit tighter than he ought to. Robbie didn't stop him.

Seeing that Pelgrin wasn't going anywhere this time, Robbie returned to James.

His breaths came quick and shallow from between clenched teeth. Robbie examined the burn left by the blowtorch. Luckily, the flame had gone out in the air; unluckily, it had landed with its heated metal surface down, leaving a half-ring scorched into James' skin.

"It's okay," James said hastily, before Robbie could make a fuss. "It's nothing."

 _Nothing? On top of everything else you've been through? How can this be 'nothing'?_ Robbie wanted to shout at James, until he caught the flicker of a glance towards his father and Pelgrin, and understood. James had learnt long ago not to show weakness in front of bullies.

"Oh, lad, I'm sorry."

James shook his head. "No, sir,  _I'm_  sorry."

Robbie stared. "What on earth for, James?"

"I thought you'd...I jumped to conclusions..."

Oh, about ringing up his father. "Doesn't matter," Robbie said firmly. "I'm just glad you're alive, bonny lad."

"Thanks to you."

"Never mind that, James. First things first, let's get you out of these damned chains." Robbie examined the handcuffs, looking for the keyhole.

"No keys for these, sir, you'll have to pry the code out of Pelgrin." James nodded towards a keypad, mounted on the wall next to a blank screen.

Mr Hathaway had been listening. "Leave that to me," he said grimly. He picked Pelgrin up and smashed him against the wall. "The code to the handcuffs," he demanded.

Pelgrin gave him a bloodied smile. "And why would I want to give you that?"

"As you just reminded us, I used to whip my son. What makes you think you're immune?"

Robbie raised his eyebrows at the threat, but turned it into a shrug as Pelgrin looked to him for back-up. If he thought he was still entitled to police protection after tearing James' back into shreds, he had another think coming.

"All right, all right! You've made your point." Pelgrin surrendered surprisingly fast. "It's 4448."

Keeping Pelgrin pinned against the wall with one hand, Mr Hathaway typed in the numbers with the other. Robbie heard a click. The right handcuff had come loose. James shook it off, then tried the left. No good. The _bastard_.

"We need three more, it looks like," Robbie reported. Mr Hathaway looked enquiringly at Pelgrin.

"2159." That released the left handcuff. James clambered to his feet, with Robbie's assistance.

"6371." The right leg shackle came off. James kicked it away with vicious jubilation, and they looked expectantly towards the two men.

"Right. Last one," Mr Hathaway said to Pelgrin.

Pelgrin glared at him balefully, then something seemed to change in his face. "7734."

"Seven - seven - three -" James' father muttered under his breath. As he keyed in the digits, Robbie registered the new expression on Pelgrin's face. It wasn't defeat. Far from it. It was ill-concealed glee.

"Hang on - wait!" he shouted, just as James' father pressed "four".

Instead of the final click, four mini-explosions sounded above them, one after the other.

"Get down!" Mr Hathaway yelled, as Robbie instinctively pulled James down and shielded him from whatever new threat had emerged above them.

When apocalypse didn't immediately rain down upon their heads, Robbie raised his head and took a cautious look around.

Four holes had opened up in the ceiling, one just two feet away from Robbie and James, one just in front of the doorway that led up the stairs to the beach, and two more set so that the four formed a square. And the whole of Terry Palmer's little patch of beach seemed to be emptying itself through them, making a menacing hiss as it poured down.

But that was nowhere near as terrifying as the cackle of laughter emanating from Pelgrin. He was almost helpless with mirth at the way their uncomprehending faces turned to horror as they realised the direness of the situation. There was still time for three of them to get out. But James, still anchored to the floor, had no chance of escape.

"You bastard! What did you do?" Mr Hathaway shouted at Pelgrin. "What's the last code?"

"It doesn't matter," Pelgrin choked out, between huffs of laughter. "Once that code is keyed in, all the others deactivate."

"I don't believe you. There has to be a code to reverse this," Robbie said desperately. 

"When I order something to self-destruct, it self-destructs." Pelgrin looked at James, face twisted into a victorious sneer. "And if I want something destroyed, it gets destroyed."

"If James doesn't make it out, neither will you!" Mr Hathaway was almost spitting in Pelgrin's face.

"Doesn't matter, so long as I get to take him with me." And he burst into another peal of deranged laughter.

Anger flared within Robbie. They hadn't come this far just to lose James now. Not to the crackpot schemes of a wannabe James Bond villain. "You work on pulling the cuff off, if you can," he directed James. "I'll call for help." He wasn't at all sure that there was time for Maddie and the others to get back here in time, but it was worth a try.

"Maddie?"

"Robbie, where on earth - "

"No time to explain. Come to Palmer's beach. Bring tools. Spades, crowbars, hammers, anything. Firearms, even, if you can manage them.  _Now_!"

To her credit, Maddie didn't waste any time asking useless questions. "On my way," she said crisply.

Robbie thrust the phone back into his pocket. "Larimer's bringing help," he announced, more optimistically than he felt. He began rooting through the pile of equipment immediately available to them. There had to be _something_ in here. A hammer to smash the mechanism the manacle was attached to. A crowbar to pry it off its rail. Something, anything to free James from its grip. But the BDSM implements were all soft, pliant, intended for use against fragile human flesh, not cold, hard steel.

Seeing Robbie's shoulders sag in defeat, James suggested, "He has some sort of cubby-hole round that way, anything there?" He pointed to his left.

Robbie trudged through the already ankle-deep sand to take a look, hoping against hope for it to contain a cache of weaponry. But the 'cubby-hole' turned out to be a mini-kitchenette. Tinned foods, a small fridge, a water cooler. The only utensils were a can opener and couple of spoons. Not even a sharp knife that they could use to...it didn't bear thinking about.

"No, nothing useful," he reported.

"And this bastard's no good either. Completely barmy," Mr Hathaway said with disgust, shoving Pelgrin's giggling body aside. He went over to James and pulled hard at the mechanism, trying to wrench it off with brute strength alone. Well, it made more sense than trying to strike at it, since the sand was up to James' calves now.

"Come on, give me a hand!" Robbie joined them, and they heaved as one. But even with the Hathaways' considerable combined strength, the mechanism refused to budge. Richard Pelgrin had engineered and over-engineered the thing to withstand the strength of ten crazed men.

And all the while he sat there, the sand gathering around him, and laughed at the futility of their efforts.

"Sir." Robbie looked up into James' face. He seemed oddly calm despite the situation. "Sir, you have to get out of here while you still can," he said quietly.

Robbie followed James' gaze to the pile of sand situated directly in front of the doorway. Cold fear gripped him when he saw how large it already was, sending his heartbeat into overdrive. Maddie wasn't going to get here in time.

Every self-preserving instinct in him screamed at him to _get out, now!_  But how could he abandon James to slowly suffocate in this dungeon, alone? And how could the lad think that he would desert him like that? He turned back to James resolutely. "No. I'm not leaving you."

"Sir, you must. Think of Lyn. Think of Jack," James urged him.

"And who'll think of you, lad?"

"I'll take care of him," James' father interposed brusquely. "He's right, you get out."

"No, Father, you're going too," James said, his voice firm and authoritative, a stark contrast from this morning's first meeting with his dad. "I'll be all right."

" _All right_?" Robbie echoed incredulously. Had whatever had addled Pelgrin's brain sent James off his rocker too? How could he _possibly_ be all right?

"I need you out there to direct operations. It won't do me any bloody good if the three of us are stuck down here," James said, a note of desperation entering his voice.

And what good would it do him if they were out there? Three minutes without air, Laura Hobson had once told him. There was no way they'd be able to get help to him within three minutes with James buried down here in this quagmire.

James changed tactics. "There are civilians here, sir," he pointed out. "You have to evacuate them." He'd resorted to guilt-tripping now. As if Robbie would care more about his duty to James' father, who could damn well take care of himself, and Richard Pelgrin, who damn well deserved whatever fate he got, more than he cared about James. If their positions were switched, Robbie somehow knew, if he were the one trapped and James the one making the choice, nothing, not duty, not a direct order from his superior officer, would have budged James from staying here, with him.

"Sir, please. Trust me." His eyes were imploring Robbie now. It would break Robbie's heart to disappoint him, but the alternative – living without James – was even worse.

But James' appeal did have an effect on one person, at least. "Come on," Mr Hathaway said. "James is right, we can't do any good down here. And if we don't leave soon, we'll be trapped too." He was right, Robbie could see. Already they'd have to wade through it to get out, and at the rate the sand was coming through the ceiling, it would be impassable in half a minute...a minute at most.

Mr Hathaway went over to Pelgrin and picked him up like a rag doll.

"What are you doing? Put me down!"

"Evacuate the civilians, my son said, and I'm respecting his wish," James' father said. He slung Pelgrin unceremoniously over a shoulder, put a hand on Robbie's arm. "Come on."

"You can't be serious about leaving him down here!" Robbie said, appalled.

Mr Hathaway looked hard at his son. "I didn't trust him years ago, when I should have. I'm choosing to trust him now."

James looked deeply moved. "Thank you, Father." With his eyes, he silently urged Robbie to do the same.

Robbie licked his dry lips. If this was the time for confessions...it wasn't the best of audiences, but he had to do it while he still could. "Listen, James, I -"

He was interrupted by another series of small explosions. When they looked up this time, it was eight holes in the ceiling, and double the amount of sand falling in each second. Worse yet, a crack was starting to form between two nearby holes. The whole thing was going to collapse.

"I had those on a timer circuit!" Pelgrin interrupted his struggling to crow proudly.

James gave Robbie a surprisingly hard shove. "Go! Now! Father, look after him!"

Mr Hathaway didn't have to be told twice. His hand fastened around Robbie's wrist in an iron grip. "Come on!"

"James, I lo-" Then they were passing through the waterfall of sand, and Robbie spluttered as some of it got into his eyes and mouth, robbing him of his last glimpse of James and his ability to speak. And then they were through, and scrambling up the stairs towards safety.

"Stop fidgeting, damn you!" Above him, Mr Hathaway was having trouble hanging on to Pelgrin, who was still writhing about despite being trussed up.

"I keep telling you to let go!" Pelgrin sank his teeth into Mr Hathaway's shoulder. He released Pelgrin with a howl of pain. Pelgrin fell against Robbie and they tumbled back into the sandpit.

Robbie's lungs panicked as they scrabbled for air and got only grit. There was no more terrifying sensation. All sense went out of Robbie's head. He didn't know what was up and what was down. Not knowing in which direction lay safety, he was paralysed with indecision, reduced to futile flailing. He could hear voices shouting, but they were distant, drowned out by the roar of falling sand in his ears.

A pair of strong hands rescued him from the deluge and pulled him lightwards. Robbie inhaled, gulping down glorious oxygen. "Pelgrin?" he coughed out when he could.

"He made his choice," Mr Hathaway said grimly as they emerged into the light. They slumped against the top step and looked back down into the abyss, panting from their exertions.

"Robbie!" Maddie was running down the path from Palmer's beach house, a shovel in hand, followed by a motley crew of police officers bearing sundry tools, commandeered from the premises as likely as not. "Robbie, what's happening?"

A dull boom sounded from within the stairway. From the ceiling collapsing, reasoned the one corner of Robbie's brain that could still think logically. A stream of air and debris blasted up at them, and they ducked away from it.

"Robbie? How? What?" Maddie stared in confusion at the missing floor of the changing-room.

"We found James," Robbie reported numbly. "And now we've lost him."


	7. Chapter 7

"I suppose it'll be my turn from now on," Laura said.

"Your turn for what?" Robbie said absently.

"To comfort you during the flashbacks."

About asphyxiating to death, she didn't say. Someday, perhaps, that memory might be the one haunting his nightmares. But right now, it paled next to the memory of those frantic minutes they'd spent digging through the sand, knowing that James would have run out of air long ago.

"Robbie, if you grip his hand any harder, you're going to cut off his blood circulation."

Robbie relaxed his grip slightly, unwilling to let go altogether. His eyes took in the length of James' body, buried now under the starched white sheet of a hospital bed. He forced himself to focus on the near-imperceptible rise and fall of the lad's chest and not the pale stillness of his face. He'd been so sure he'd lost him.

"He'll survive, Dr Patel said," Laura reminded him. "You got him out in time."

Survive, yes, but it was less clear that it would be with all his faculties intact. The young doctor had been matter-of-fact in delivering his prognosis. _The brain scans look positive, but I have to caution that it's always difficult to predict the recovery trajectory of patients with hypoxia. He may suffer long-term cognitive and physical deficits. There is also the possibility that his personality will alter. We won't know for sure until he regains consciousness, and we get the chance to make a full behavioural evaluation._

Laura seemed to divine the reason for his melancholy. She squeezed his hand – the one that wasn't holding onto his sergeant for dear life. "I believe in James."

So should he, Robbie reminded himself. _Trust me_ , James had said, and he'd kept his promise. "You know, it wasn't me who dug him out. And it wasn't even his dad who really saved him, in the end."

Laura nodded. "Jean told me. James managed to enclose his head in a...box of some kind? It was airtight enough to keep the sand from seeping in. The pocket of air gave him the crucial time he needed till you could reach him."

"Ironic, isn't it? That one of Pelgrin's torture devices was James' means of survival." Too bad Pelgrin wasn't around to see that he had failed in his goal. Not that Robbie was in any mood to gloat.

Laura nodded. "I don't know if he'd ever have imagined that it could be used in such a way. He thinks quickly in a crisis, your James."

"He's amazing, Laura," Robbie said, the conviction running through his very being.

Laura surveyed him for a moment.

"You know, Robbie, we don't get many chances for happiness in life." She sounded like she'd been talking to Innocent.

"Aye, and he's had fewer than most." Robbie's chest tightened when he remembered the layers of scars on James' back. First his father, then Pelgrin. And that wasn't even counting the invisible wounds inflicted by Augustus Mortmaigne. The poor lad had really never caught a break.

"So, make him happy, eh?"

Desire and guilt hit Robbie with equal measure. No longer repressed by conviction born of desperation, all his uncertainties had returned in force. It didn't help that James looked so terribly young and vulnerable, lying there with all sorts of tubes and whatnot attached to him.

"I don't even know if that's what he wants, Laura. Maybe what he wants is..." Robbie trailed off as the door opened to admit Innocent, accompanied by James' father.

Robbie hadn't seen Michael Hathaway since he'd been whisked off to have his injuries treated. The blisters on his palms had been wrapped up in gauze and a bandage was just visible under his shirt where Pelgrin had bitten him, in an almost identical spot to James' burn wound. He bore a chastened look, and Robbie suspected that Innocent had been hammering a few home-truths into him.

"James' father would like to sit with him for a moment," Innocent announced. "Would you mind, Robbie?"

Robbie rose, every muscle of his body screaming in protest at the movement. Laura helped him to his feet.

"DCS Innocent says you once pulled James out of a burning building," James' father said gruffly.

"And you pulled him out of that lot of sand," Robbie replied. He had never seen a shovel move so fast in his life. Robbie might never forgive him for what he'd done to James in the past, but he'd always be grateful for that. "I think we're even."

Michael Hathaway gave him a nod and settled into the seat Robbie had vacated. As Robbie pulled the door closed behind him, he heard him say, "James, lad, it wasn't your fault."

Robbie slid the door shut.

Innocent folded her arms. "Poor fellow."

"What, Hathaway's dad?" Robbie said incredulously. "Do you have any idea what he did to James when he was a wee lad?"

Instead of answering, Innocent said, "You know he was stationed in Northern Ireland during the Troubles?"

Robbie nodded. It was the only reason he'd allowed Mr Hathaway to come with him to Dorset at all.

"Several of his men got blown up in the Warrenpoint bomb attacks. He came pretty close to being blown up himself. And that was just the straw that broke the camel's back – I'm sure there was plenty of earlier trauma. If he had been a soldier just back from Iraq or Afghanistan, he'd have been diagnosed with PTSD and seen twice weekly by a psychiatrist. But thirty years ago, he was simply sent home to recover as best he could, without much more support than what his wife and a daily ration of whisky could supply."

"Well, yes, but –"

"I'm not trying to make excuses for him, Robbie. If James decides to press charges, we'll press charges. But we should also try to understand."

"Yes, ma'am," Robbie said soberly.

All this violence. Where had it begun? Mr Hathaway had hurt James. But he'd been hurt, too. So had the terrorists who'd planted the bombs that had killed his comrades. And what about Richard Pelgrin? Did he have an inciting cause too, for his own sadistic tendencies? On it went, back to...what? Adam and Eve and the serpent? No, that was just a convenient myth that tried to explain everything and therefore explained nothing. It was really just an endless cycle of violence, wasn't it? No start, no end, just eternal.

Except that James _would_ end it. He had a temper, true, but ultimately he always restrained himself before he went too far. And if he did ever cross the line, Robbie would be there to pull him back over.

"So don't be too hard on him, Robbie," Innocent concluded. "And don't be too hard on yourself, either. Take the whole of next week off. Maddie will take full charge of the investigation here, and Peterson will handle the Randy Daniels paperwork. That was Pelgrin, of course."

Robbie roused himself from his philosophical musings. "Yes, ma'am. I suspect Pelgrin once used Randy's services. When Randy found out Johnny's real name, he worked out some of the truth, and tried to extort money out of Pelgrin in return for his silence." Robbie shook his head. "He didn't bank on how ruthless Johnny's father could be. Can't blame him. Johnny and his father were nothing alike."

Innocent's phone chose that moment to ring. She glanced at the screen and mouthed "Scotland Yard" at him, then walked away to take the call.

Scotland Yard? Nothing to do with him, then. Robbie turned his attention back to the large window in James' hospital room that allowed the nurses to visually monitor its occupant's condition from the nurses' station. Through it he could see Hathaway Senior talking earnestly to an unconscious James. Robbie wondered whether his contrition would last until James was awake to hear it. He deserved to hear it, after all he'd been through.

"Robbie." Laura handed him her phone. He took it, puzzled. Who would be trying to reach him through her?

"It's Lyn," she explained. "She's rather worried."

Christ, he'd forgotten to tell Lyn that they wouldn't be coming. She must be frantic. He pulled his sand-encrusted mobile out of his pocket. It was dead, probably ran out of battery hours ago. Robbie put Laura's mobile to his ear hastily. "Hullo, pet."

"Dad! Where are you? I expected you and James to get here hours ago! I've been trying to call for ages. Are you all right?"

"Sorry, love. We never managed to get started. Things have...it's been a right mess, really."

Lyn immediately sensed his upset. She was like her mam in that way – Val had always known, the instant he walked in the door, when something was the matter.

"It's not something to do with James, is it?"

He told her. Not everything, but enough to let her know that James had been through a terrible, traumatic experience, but was expected to recover.

"Oh, God," she breathed. "How is he now?"

"He'll be all right, lass. And I'll try to come up next week. I promise. I've the whole week off."

"That's wonderful, Dad. And...James? What's his outlook?"

Robbie hesitated as the niggling worry that James might _not_ be back to normal – next week, or ever – re-insinuated itself. But he forced himself to put a brave face on it.

"We'll come up as soon as he's released from the hospital and he's been debriefed," he promised.

"So you think he'll agree? When we talked last night you said you weren't sure whether Jack would put him off. I know you said once that he wasn't very comfortable around babies."

"Nah, he'll be all right, lass." Robbie sighed. "James is good with kids." Even if he'd never had the chance to be one himself.

"Okay, we'll look forward to seeing you, then – no, Jack, not on the tablecloth!"

Robbie smiled at the muffled noises in the background as Lyn tackled whatever new mischief his grandson was in the middle of committing. It was good to hear that elsewhere, real life was running along in its ordinary, merry way.

Lyn's voice returned, sounding harried. "Sorry, Dad, have to go. But let me know if there's any change, yeah? Take care of him. Love you."

"Love you, lass." Robbie squinted at the mobile, trying to work out how to end the call.

Laura took over with her usual efficiency. "Here, let me."

"Ta, Laura," Robbie said, relinquishing the mobile gratefully. "And listen, thanks for coming all the way down here. I know you didn't have to, but..."

Laura patted his arm. "Of course I did."

"Lewis!" Innocent beckoned them over to a spot in the corridor beyond earshot of the nurses' station. "That was Scotland Yard. They just raided Pelgrin Properties' London headquarters, on our recommendation. They found a small army of snoops beavering away, collecting all sorts of illicit information about their clients. When asked where Pelgrin was, they had an alibi ready to hand involving some extremely well-connected businessmen."

That must have been why Pelgrin had been so cocksure. He'd thought any charges brought against him would never stick. "Must've been pretty shocked when they were told he was dead in Dorset."

Innocent nodded. "We're going to form a joint task force to search all the properties Pelgrin has ever been involved in building, for these priest-holes of his."

With Peterson heading up the Oxfordshire team, no doubt. Action Man did have his uses.

"Does that include the Home Secretary's house in the country, ma'am?" Robbie asked innocently.

"Including his house in the country, yes, Lewis," Innocent replied with a wry twist of her mouth.

A snatch of conversation with Julie Lockhart two days ago popped back into Robbie's mind. _Gurdip calculated that the number of missing tall, blond young men exceeds their incidence in the population by a statistically significant margin._

"They should probably check to see if those priest-holes were ever occupied." Robbie outlined the theory to Innocent and Laura, who looked appropriately horrified.

"Surely a single man can't be responsible for all that!" Laura exclaimed.

"Well, if there are any skeletons in there, we'll find them," Innocent said grimly. "And there's one other thing you should know, Robbie. Among the documents Scotland Yard recovered was a dossier on James."

"A dossier?" Robbie repeated, uncomprehending.

"Interviews done by his staff with various people from James' life. Including one made by a visitor to Augustus Mortmaigne in HMP Bullingdon. It was...extremely detailed, so I hear. Enough to be actionable, anyway."

Even though he'd already known about the abuse, Robbie felt sick. Bad enough for it to have happened, but the idea of _Pelgrin_ knowing, and using that knowledge against James, made his skin crawl.

"Another thing the dossier contained was James' confidential personnel file. We'll be investigating the source of the leak, of course." Innocent took a deep breath. "Richard Pelgrin was a ticking timebomb, Robbie. The secrets he had access to...the consequences could have been catastrophic. But thanks to James, he's been found out, and stopped."

Robbie supposed that Innocent had meant that to be a comfort, but the idea of James being subjected to Pelgrin's depravity for even a minute, let alone five hours, brought up bile to his throat. That James had ever been in danger of ending up like Johnny was more than he could bear to contemplate.

"Something's happening," Laura said suddenly, spotting a flurry of activity at the nurses' station. They were rushing into James' room. Robbie ran back in time to see Dr Patel firmly shut the door against Michael Hathaway.

"What happened? How's James?" Robbie asked him, his heart in his throat.

Mr Hathaway looked disgruntled at being turfed out so unceremoniously. "They came in just as he was stirring. I reckon the machines told them he was awake. They said they had to run some tests."

Robbie pressed his nose against the window, trying to see how James looked, but the nurses formed a phalanx barring him from sight.

"Robbie, it'll be all right. It's a good sign that he woke up this early," Laura assured him. "They just need to evaluate his condition, see if it's safe to take him off the ventilator."

The next few minutes were tense. There was absolutely no information to be gleaned from Dr Patel's impassive face as he asked questions and made notes on his clipboard. Robbie and Hathaway Senior were reduced to pacing the corridor while they waited. Finally Dr Patel emerged.

"Doctor? How is he?" Innocent asked as they crowded around, eager for news.

Dr Patel frowned at his clipboard. "Well, the IQ test was off the charts, and his coordination skills seem intact, but..."

Robbie's heart pounded. _But what, man?_

"I'll need to ask you some questions," the doctor continued. "Purely to establish a baseline for comparison, you understand." He turned to Robbie. "First, would it be logical for Sergeant Hathaway to expect you to be by his bedside when he woke up?"

Robbie's heart leapt. "Absolutely," he said firmly. "So if you'd just let me –"

"Hold on, please. And would it be normal, in your considered opinion, for him to react to your absence by – to use the established medical phrase – throwing a snit?"

Robbie would have laughed if he didn't want so badly to strangle the man. "Yes. Get on with it!"

"Just one last question, sir," Dr Patel said imperturbably. "Would it be normal for him to express his frustration by swearing in about four or five languages – including Latin?"

" _Yes_ ," three voices answered, instantly and joyously.

Dr Patel smiled and marked an ostentatious checkmark against a box on his papers. "In that case, I declare him ready to receive visitors. But one at a time, please." He looked at Robbie. "You first. I'll just instruct the nurses to remove the ventilator, and then he's all yours."

Dr Patel bustled inside, and Robbie glanced at Mr Hathaway. He looked somewhat crestfallen.

"You can go ahead and see him first if you want to," Robbie said, trying to be generous. Although it was all he could do not to follow James' example and throw a snit himself if he didn't get to see him, _now_.

Mr Hathaway shook his head. "No, it's you he wants. Listen..." He paused, and gave Innocent a significant glance.

She took the hint. She tilted her head in the direction of the hospital cafeteria. "Fancy a celebratory cup of coffee, Laura?"

"I certainly do." Laura's keen glance darted from Hathaway Senior to Robbie, before she followed Innocent.

Mr Hathaway still seemed distinctly ill-at-ease. "Right, well. Listen, Lewis. I know I don't deserve it, but...can you do me a favour?" he said abruptly.

"What kind of favour?" Robbie asked.

James' father fidgeted with his fingers. Whatever he was about to say, it was costing him a great deal to say it. Finally he looked Robbie in the eye. "Look, I know how it is between the two of you."

Robbie felt the blood drain from his face. Mr Hathaway must have figured out what he'd been trying to say to James, in those last frantic moments when he thought all hope was lost.

But any expectation he had of being walloped by an over-protective dad for daring to contemplate a relationship with his child was shattered by his next words.

"You've been a better dad to my boy all these years than I've ever been." He put up a hand to forestall Robbie's protest. "I know. You saved his life. You've been there when he woke up in hospital. You've been by his side every step along the way. So take care of him in my place, all right?"

There it was again, the assumption that James wouldn't – couldn't – view him as anything other than a father figure. It made sense. Robbie was at most a couple years younger with Michael Hathaway. He was James' superior officer. Maybe it was a good thing for all concerned that Robbie's confession had been swallowed up by the sand, after all.

Robbie pulled himself together, and made himself think like a father figure. "Surely you're not leaving now? He'll want to talk to you."

"I'll let him decide that for himself. I've been out of his life for more than half of it. Don't want to impose on him if he doesn't want me. And if he does...he can find me." Mr Hathaway shrugged. "Can't be hard, if that bastard Pelgrin could do it."

"But you still owe him an apology. You shouldn't be waiting for him to come to you to deliver it!"

"Yeah, you're right. Maybe later. When I've had a chance to have a kip." Mr Hathaway ran his bandaged hand through his blond hair. He looked absolutely shattered. He gestured tiredly towards James' room. "You go ahead. I'll figure out some way to get back to Oxford."

"If I may interrupt." Robbie jumped when Maddie's strident voice cut in on their conversation. He hadn't even realised she'd arrived at the hospital. "I believe we may be able to offer a solution, Mr Hathaway. We're sending three witnesses in a case back up there, and there'll be a spare seat in the car."

Robbie's mind boggled at the prospect of James' dad sharing a ride with Terry Palmer and Anton Germain, but he must have managed to hide it well enough since Mr Hathaway said, a little stiffly, "That's very kind of you, ma'am. I think I'll take you up on the offer."

"If you'll just go down and wait in the lobby, I'll arrange with Wesley for you to be picked up. Shouldn't take long."

As Maddie made the arrangements, Mr Hathaway clapped a hand on Robbie's shoulder. "So you will, won't you? Take care of him for me."

"Of course," Robbie said. Whether as a father-figure, an inspector, best mate, or anything else, that was the one thing he could safely promise.

Mr Hathaway nodded gratefully and took his leave. Robbie and Maddie watched him go.

"So, by the fact that his father thinks it's safe to leave, I'm guessing that James has come round?"

"Yeah, just. They're just taking him off assisted breathing now."

As if on cue, Dr Patel appeared at Robbie's elbow. "Inspector Lewis? He's ready for you."

"Excuse me, ma'am." Robbie almost ran past the doctor into the room, heart thumping. It threatened to jump out of its cage when he saw Hathaway's eyes open, intelligent, _James_. The nurses had levered him up into a sitting position and the mask that had covered his nose and mouth had been removed, leaving a ring of white circling the lower half of his already pale face. He looked like death warmed over still, but his face was animated as he heaved a sigh of relief at Robbie's entrance.

"Oh, thank God. I thought they were never going to let me see you. Are you all right?"

"Me? I'm not the one who was trapped under a beachful of sand," Robbie reminded James, as he came to stand next to James' bed. His light hair was tousled, sticking out in all directions, and it was all Robbie could do to stop himself from reaching out to smooth it down.

"But I saw you go under," James objected. His voice was hoarse and scratchy, but he seemed determined to talk.

"Your father pulled me out."

"Oh. And what about Pelgrin?"

"He was dead when they pulled him out. Asphyxia," Robbie said grimly. It was a kind of justice, for his son at least. "He won't hurt you, or anyone else, ever again." He glanced through the window. Innocent and Hobson had returned, and were talking to Maddie.

James followed his gaze. "Where's my father?"

"He was pretty exhausted after digging you out. He went back to Oxford. But he'll be in touch. And if not, I'll hunt him down."

James frowned. "To press charges for this morning, you mean?"

"If you like. Or even for before."

James leaned back against the pillow with a sigh. "Pelgrin told me that he and my father were alike. But they aren't. We...didn't always get on, but when push came to shove, my father saved me. And he saved you."

"You realise that using a murderer as a basis for comparison is setting a rather low bar?" Robbie said, as mildly as he could manage.

James' face shuttered slightly. "Like I said last night, sir, not all of us were as lucky as Lyn and Mark."

Robbie valiantly struggled to hide his disappointment. "All right. I'm sorry for prying. I'll stop being the nosy detective. If you don't want to talk about any of this, I'll..."

"No," James interrupted, surprisingly fierce. "I do want to talk about it." He looked up at Robbie, his eyes haunted and pleading. "Pelgrin...he knew so much about me. He told me that the most valuable tool in his career was being able to dig up information on other people, so that he could exploit their weaknesses and use their fears against them. He knew about my life at Crevecoeur, at the seminary, at Cambridge...I don't want him to have the distinction of knowing the most about me, out of anyone."

"He's dead, lad," Robbie said gently.

"Still," James insisted.

"You can tell me anything you want, James, and I'll listen. But you're wrong."

"Sir?" A hint of confusion came into James' eyes.

"Pelgrin knew nothing about you. Yes, he knew about your past, far more than you ever wanted anyone to know. But he didn't know _you_. He didn't know the cleverclogs detective who jumps into lakes of crap to save someone from drowning. He didn't know what it's like to share a beer with you down the pub. He didn't know the James Hathaway who sits on my settee and makes acerbic comments about the crap telly. You're more than the sum of your past, James. You've overcome the priest hole at Crevecoeur," – James blinked at that – "you've overcome your father's abuse," – James flinched at the stark word, but Robbie believed in calling a spade a spade – "and you're going to overcome this."

James' smile was like sunlight piercing through a cloudy sky. "And we'll carry on making memories that Pelgrin will have no way of touching."

God, he didn't know how hard he was making this. "That's right, lad." Robbie forced an encouraging grin. "We will."

James stared at the ceiling for a few moments in silence. He looked determined, as if he was making a resolution. "Pelgrin said there was something else that was parallel between our cases. Nicholas never forgave him for what his father had done to him. And at the time, I hadn't either."

"Because your father hadn't done anything worth forgiving," Robbie pointed out.

"But he has now. By rescuing you." He exhaled, and though James didn't spell it out, Robbie knew that it was done, in the lad's head at least.

"Your father ought to be here. To tell you that he's forgiven you too." No, that wasn't quite right. James wasn't the one who needed forgiving here. "To say that he'd been wrong about you," Robbie corrected himself.

"Oh, but he did," James said, surprisingly. "I could hear him. At least, I think it was him." He frowned. "Could have been my fevered imagination, I suppose."

Robbie hastened to put him straight. "No, no. He was here, talking to you, right up till you came to."

"I think he also said...that he loved me." James' pale cheeks coloured to a charming shade of pink. "Which made me think that maybe you could love me too."

"'Course I do, lad," Robbie said, trying to mask his desire and keep his voice at the tone of a caring colleague. Best mate came a bit too close to the truth.

James must have sensed the equivocation in his voice. "I don't mean as a friend or a colleague. And not as a son, either. I don't want another father. I already _have_ a father. I intend to keep on having a father. That's not what I want. That's not what I _need_."

A sudden, irrational hope swelled in Robbie's heart. "Then tell me what you need, pet."

"You," James said. "Just you." He gripped Robbie's crooked tie, reeled him in, and kissed him.

It wasn't the most spectacular kiss in the world by any objective means, but the fireworks going off in Robbie's head more than compensated for morning breath and chapped lips. It banished all his doubts like the lifting of a magic spell, suffusing him with an elation he hadn't known for a very long time.

"I love you, James," he whispered. Better late than never.

James sighed, and this time it was a sigh of contentment. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to hear you say that."

Robbie pulled a face. "Why couldn't you have said something earlier, then?"

"I'm the soul of discretion, sir," James said primly.

"You just snogged me in front of a window, on the other side of which stand our boss and our pathologist!" Not to mention DCI Larimer and a host of gawking nurses.

James shifted his head. Robbie didn't dare to look.

"They don't really seem to mind, sir. They look like the cat that's got the cream, actually," James reported. Robbie supposed that Innocent could just take it as a new challenge to test her managerial skills.

James' smirk died away as he looked back at Robbie. "To be honest, sir, I don't think I'd ever have dared to do it if I hadn't been watching when you thought I'd gone over a cliff," he confessed. "Pelgrin had hidden cameras set up to record what was going on in the house. When I saw your face...well, it gave me a clue."

Robbie passed a hand over his eyes, remembering the sudden dread that had seized him when Larimer had broken the news. So James had seen that, and deduced...? It seemed there was one thing, at least, that they owed to Pelgrin, though Robbie wished the knowledge could have been been purchased more cheaply.

But then it hadn't been all him, according to James. It hadn't been enough for him to see the proof of Robbie's affection. He'd needed his father's blessing. Not for their relationship – Robbie rather suspected Mr Hathaway would want to knock his blocks off, if he knew. What James had needed to hear from his father was that he was worthy of being loved.

James seemed to mistake his silence for something more. "I'm sorry I worried you," he said contritely. "Twice."

"Needn't have the second time if you weren't so bloody inscrutable, lad," Robbie said, but without heat. "If I'd only seen you put that box over your head, I wouldn't have been panicking half the afternoon."

Robbie had intended the comment as an extension of their usual light-hearted banter, expected a sardonic reply like _O ye of little faith_ , but instead James blanched and began to make hurried excuses.

"I didn't actually think of it till the last few seconds, and then...it was selfish of me, I admit, but I wanted to see you for as long as possible. And I was afraid that if I said something too soon, Pelgrin might interfere somehow. And..." He was beginning to work himself up into a bit of a strop, and Robbie regretted teasing him when he should have known better. The lad was still raw from his memories of unjustified blame, and he was still too unused to the idea of unconditional love applying to him to know that he didn't have to behave perfectly to be perfect in Robbie's eyes.

Robbie pressed a finger to his lips. "Enough, James. I forgive you." He had to say it, since James hadn't got to hear it properly from his father. In fact, he could do better than just saying it.

James' eyes grew impossibly wide when Robbie plonked himself on the bed and tugged him upwards. Indignant anger bubbled up inside Robbie, knowing that this was closer than Michael Hathaway had ever got to his son, remembering that James had received so little affection in his life when he'd needed it the most. But James had forgiven his father, and Robbie didn't really have to the right to be angry at him on James' behalf anymore.

"Look, I know you don't view me as your dad, but I'm going to do something your dad should've done for you years ago," Robbie told him. James' eyes were saucers flying past his eyes as he nestled James' head in his shoulder. The lad's lanky frame tensed for a second, and Robbie concentrated on pouring every ounce of love and reassurance and understanding he could into the hug until James relaxed into the embrace. He stroked James' back gently, stopping just short of the bandage over his shoulder.

"You can touch it. I'm pretty sure they've pumped me full of painkillers. Don't feel a thing," James said, voice muffled by his shirt.

"I don't want to inflame it."

"Mm. I wish it wasn't there. Have to see it every morning in the mirror from now on."

"You can get it covered up," Robbie soothed.

James pulled back suddenly. "Leon Williams could design me a tattoo to go over it," he said, excitement replacing the hint of bitterness that had been in his voice.

A _tattoo_? Robbie had been thinking more along the lines of a skin graft. But James' eyes were bright, and Robbie still remembered Leon Williams' words. _Something to symbolise the beautiful relationship only the two of you share_. If it helped James forget one of the worst times of his life, and reassure him of the permanence of their love, it was all to the good, wasn't it?

"I think that's a grand idea, lad."

James beamed, the lines of exhaustion finally falling away from his face. Why ever had they been there in the first place? Oh yes, because he'd worked himself ragged finishing up that report, just so that...so that...

Light finally dawned.

"By the way, don't think I haven't figured it out."

James' face was a study in innocence. "Figured out what?"

"Bit of a coincidence that I've had my Father's Day weekend free for the last six years, isn't it? What're the odds on that?"

James winced. "Dr Hobson said you'd figure it out someday."

"Wise woman, Laura Hobson."

James squared his shoulders, lifted his chin. "So what's my punishment, _sir_?" The way he said it sent a shiver down Robbie's spine. Maybe there were worse things than continually being called 'sir' by your boyfriend.

"Well, Innocent's letting us have next week off."

"Very generous of her."

"So I'm going up to Manchester, and you're coming with me."

"Me, sir? Have you asked Lyn how she feels about that?"

"Nothing but supportive. You were already invited yesterday, lad. Though she may be a wee bit surprised, mind, when I ring her up to tell her she'll only need to prepare the one bed."

There was a long pause while James spluttered.

"Well? Are you going to come willingly? Or will I have to drag you up there in handcuffs?"

James laughed. "I'd be happy to go. Thank you. And, sir?"

"Yeah, James."

"I mayn't know Lyn yet, but I think she'd like me to give you this on her behalf." This time, it was James' turn to pull him into into his arms. "Happy Father's Day, Robbie."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have guessed, this was intended to be posted on June 15, 2014, but the fic ran away from me, rather. Thank you for sticking with this fic despite the numerous delays.
> 
> Particular thanks and apologies go to nickygabriel, who organised the Case Story Big Bang that this was supposed to be an entry in, and neevebrody, who drew the cover art for this story as part of that Big Bang. Neeve's cover art was especially instrumental in getting this fic written, as I've often stared at it to get inspiration.
> 
> Thanks also to seren_bach, my alpha reader, and wendymr, who helped with a point of contention in this last chapter. And of course, thanks to all the lovely reviewers who left comments and kudos on this fic. Your support has also been crucial to getting this done.


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